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UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Library Edition. Fully Illustrated
by E. W. KEMBLE.

THE SAME. Popular Edition. With Introduction, and Portrait

of " Uncle Tom."

THE SAME. In Riverside Literature Series, No. 88.
THE SAME. In the Riverside School Library.
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, AND THE KEY (Two vols.)

DRED, AND OTHER ANTI-SLAVERY TALES AND PAPERS.
(Two vols.)

THE MINISTER'S WOOING.
THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND.
AGNES OF SORRENTO.
HOUSEHOLD PAPERS AND STORIES.
MY WIFE AND I.

OLD TOWN FOLKS, AND SAM LAWSON'S FIRESIDE
STORiES. (Two vols.)

POGANUC PEOPLE, AND PINK AND WHITE TYRANNY.
WE AND OUR NEIGHBORS.
STORIES. SKETCHES, AND STUDIES.
RELIGIOUS STUDIES, SKETCHES, AND POEMS.
STORIES AND SKETCHES FOR THE YOUNG.

The above 16 vols. make up the new Riverside Edition.
Printed from new plates. Thoroughly edited and rearranged.
With a Biographical Sketch, and Notes. With Portraits,
Views of Mrs. Stowe's Homes, and Other Illustrations on en-
graved Title-pages.

A DOG'S MISSION. ETC. Illustrated.
QUEER LITTLE PEOPLE. Illustrated.
LITTLE PUSSY WILLOW. Illustrated.

DIALOGUES AND SCENES FROM MRS. STOWE'S WRIT-
INGS. In Riverside Literature Series, Extra No. E.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK

THE CAUIN

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UNCLE TOM'S CABIN

Or, Life Among the Lowly

BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH: A BIBLIOGRAPHY

FIVE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. W. KEMBLE

AND MANY CUTS IN THE TEXT

''""• • •

. . .

HGVJ G-HTON Mtf'FLl'N COMPANY

BOSTON i&NP JNEW YORK : : THE
RIVERSiDE'^R-ESS CAMBRIDGE

THE NEW YORK

PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LtMOX
TILD£N

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH - ix

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION xxxi

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT Ixiii

PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION Ixxxiii

I. IN WHICH THE READER is INTRODUCED TO A MAN or

HUMANITY 1

II. THE MOTHER 13

III. THE HUSBAND AND FATHER 17

IV. AN EVENING IN UNCLE TOM'S CABIN 24

V. SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANG-
ING OWNERS 38

VI. DISCOVERY 49

VII. THE MOTHER'S STRUGGLE 61

VIII. ELIZA'S ESCAPE 77

IX. IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT A MAN 94

X. THE PROPERTY is CARRIED OFF 113

XL IN WHICH PROPERTY GETS INTO AN IMPROPER STATE OF

MIND 124

XII. SELECT INCIDENT OF LAWFUL TRADE 139

XIII. THE QUAKER SETTLEMENT 158

XIV. EvANGEt/NE. .'.-..:.....--->.., ,.,\.r.*.. 168

, ', • ' > >

XV. OF TOM'S NEW MASTER, AND VARIOUS OTHER MATTERS 180

XVI. TOM'S MiSTResft A'5i> unii OPINIONS 198

XVII. THE FREEMAN'JS DEFENCE..'. 218

XVIII. MlSS OPHELJA'a-'Ex^Btl^CFlS AND OPINIONS 237

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

XIX. Miss OPHELIA'S EXPERIENCES AND OPINIONS, CON-
TINUED 256

XX. TOPSY 278

XXI. KENTUCK 295

XXII. "THE GRASS WITHERETH — THE FLOWER FADETH " 300

XXIII. HENRIQUE 309

XXIV. FORESHADOWINGS 319

XXV. THE LITTLE EVANGELIST 327

XXVI. DEATH 334

XXVII. "THIS IS THE LAST OF EARTH" 349

XXVIII. REUNION 358

XXIX. THE UNPROTECTED 374

XXX. THE SLAVE WAREHOUSE 382

XXXI. THE MIDDLE PASSAGE 396

XXXII. DARK PLACES 404

XXXIII. GASSY 416

XXXIV. THE QUADROON'S STORY 424

XXXV. THE TOKENS 438

XXXVI. EMMELINE AND GASSY 445

XXXVII. LIBERTY 453

XXXVIII. THE VICTORY 461

XXXIX. THE STRATAGEM 472

XL. THE MARTYR 485

XLI. THE YOUNG MASTER 493

XLII. AN AUTHENTIC GHOST STORY 501

XLIII. RESULTS 508

XLIV. THE LIBERATOR 516

XLV. CONCLUDING liiiiiAUKa „«.„.„. 6iiO

HAEEIET BEECHER STOWE
BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH

HARRIET ELIZABETH, seventh child of Lyman and
Roxana Foote Beecher, was born at Litchfield, Connecticut-
June 14, 1811. Her father was a Congregational ministeJ
at that time settled in Litchfield, which enjoyed the reputa
tion of being one of the most intellectual communities in
New England. Her mother died when the child was but
four years old, but in that time had made so distinct ar
impression upon her that years afterward she could writu
her recollections of her and trace the influence of her stron"

nature. Harriet divided her childhood between Litchfield
and Nut Plains, near Guilford, Connecticut, where an aunt
lived ; and it gives some intimation of the strong intellectual
surroundings in which she lived, that she committed to
memory an extraordinary number of hymns, poems, and
pieces of prose, enough to last a life-time, as her frequent
recourse to these stores afterward shows, that her favorite
reading was Cotton Mather's Magnolia Chrlsti and The
Arabian Nights, and that when she was twelve years old
she Avrote a serious composition, which has been printed
with the title Can the Immortality of the Soul be proved
by. the Light <if -Nature ? \ . *-,

Although uhe <gavo these tsigns o2 ;}?ecocity, there was no
reaction as sometioieSf h.ijtpeus^and she developed rapidly
during the next i few years, which she spent in Hartford
under the immpdi&be^eharg'o of her sister Catherine, ten or
eleven years hex senior r.nd the oldest of Lyman Beecher's

X HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

children. " In school," she once wrote of this period, "my
two most intimate friends were the leading scholars. They
had written to me before I came and I had answered their
letters, and on my arrival they gave me the warmest wel-
come. One was Catherine Ledyard Cogswell, daughter of
the leading and best beloved of Hartford physicians ; the
other was Georgiana May, daughter of a most lovely Chris-
tian woman who was a widow. . . . Catherine and Georgiana
were reading Virgil when I came to school. I began the
study of Latin alone, and at the end of the first year made
a translation of Ovid in verse, which was read at the final
exhibition of the school, and regarded, I believe, as a very
creditable performance. I was very much interested in
poetry, and it was my dream to be a poet. I began a drama
called Cleon. The scene was laid in the court and time of
the emperor Nero, and Cleon was a Greek lord residing at
Nero's court, who, after much searching and doubting, at
last comes to the knowledge of Christianity. I filled blank
book after blank book with this drama. It filled my
thoughts sleeping and waking. One day sister Catherine
pounced down upon me, and said that I must not waste my
time writing poetry, but discipline my mind by the study of
Butler's Analogy. So after this I wrote out abstracts from
the Analogy, and instructed a class of girls as old as myself,
being compelled to master each chapter just ahead of the
class I was teaching. About this time I read Baxter's
Saint's Rest. I do not think any book affected me more
powerfully. As I walked the pavements I used to wish
that they might sink beneath me if only I might find my-
self in heaven." • ; ; . ;

This ardent, imaginative nature -xmld. 'n-qti ;fail to be af-
fected by the strong religious opinions .which prevailed in
the circle in which she lived, iicr faiker, though much
occupied with a system, of . .theology. 'ipjiich he held as a
physician of souls for thei.cu,^ of £r>;rit\i;4 ailments, was also

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xi

an impassioned, poetic man ; and when Harriet was fourteen
years old and at home on a visit, he preached a sermon on
Christ and his love for the human soul, which enraptured
the child, and for the time overbore her innocent misgivings
at having no conscious conviction of sin, — that indispensa-
ble condition precedent to conversion in the theological sys-
tem under which she was trained.

" I longed to cry out ' I will,' " she writes, " when father
made his passionate appeal, ' Come, then, and trust your
soul to this faithful friend.' Like a flash it came over me
that if I needed conviction of sin, He was able to give
me even this also. I would trust Him for the whole.
My whole soul was illumined with joy, and as I left the
church to walk home, it seemed to me as if Nature herself
were hushing her breath to hear the music of heaven. As
soon as father came home and was seated in his study, I
went up to him and fell in his arms saying, ' Father, I have
given myself to Jesus, and He has taken me.' I never
shall forget the expression of his face as he looked down
into my earnest, childish eyes ; it was so sweet, so gentle,
and like sunlight breaking out upon a landscape. ' Is it
so ? ' he said, holding me silently to his heart, as I felt the
hot tears fall on my head. ' Then has a new flower blos-
somed in the kingdom this day.' :

The society in which Harriet Beecher moved in her girl-
hood was one in which the supremacy of the religious
nature was recognized implicitly, but the concentration of
attention upon the emotional side led to an introspection
and analysis of motive which often passed into morbid self-
consciousness. There were not many outlets for pietistic
expression, and the young girl was thrown in upon self-
communing which sometimes took the form of self-torture.
Her letters at this time intimate the struggle which was
going on as she strove after an intellectual sanction for a
warm emotional attitude, and sought to make a system of

Ill HARKIET BEECHER STOWE

theology for herself out of the current materials, which
should not do violence to her instinctive belief in the su-
premacy of love. It was not altogether an aid to her that
her occupation was mainly that of a student or pupil-teacher,
for this brought into constant activity her intellectual fac-
ulties, and gave little chance for that wholesome social
absorption which is the safeguard of so many growing girls.
Nevertheless, her companionship with her father and with
her brother Edward, who had a strong theological temper,
was an important factor in her development ; for both of
these men were not dispassionate scientific theologians, but
looked steadfastly toward result in conduct and loyalty to
the highest ideals. The important point to be noted, in
this stormy experience of Harriet Beecher, is that her nature,
always liable to gusts of feeling, was made steadfast in its
devotion to lofty conceptions of divine charity. She was to
know great currents of feeling in after life, when except for
some powerful principle controlling her she would be in
danger of being swept off her feet ; that principle was now,
in her passage from girlhood to womanhood, taking definite
form and asserting itself as a ruling force. That it was or-
dering her life and transforming it from a too self-centred
character is well illustrated by a letter written to her friend
Georgiana May, in 1832 : —

" As this inner world of mine has become worn out and
untenable, I have at last concluded to come out of it and

live in the external one, and as F S once advised

me, to give up the pernicious habit of meditation to the first
Methodist minister that would take it, and try to mix in
society somewhat as another person would. ... I am trying
to cultivate a general spirit of kindliness toward everybody.
Instead of shrinking into a corner to notice how other people
behave, I am holding out my hand to the right and to the
left, and forming casual or incidental acquaintances with all
who will be acquainted with me. In this way I find society

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xiii

full of interest and pleasure — a pleasure which pleaseth me
more because it is not old and worn out. . . . This kind of
pleasure in acquaintanceship is new to me. I never tried it
before. When I used to meet persons, the first enquiry
was, l Have they such and such a character, or have they
anything that might possibly be of use or harm to me ? ' . . .
The greater part that I see cannot move me deeply. They
are present, and I enjoy them ; they pass, and I forget them.
But those that I love differently ; those that I love ; and
oh, how much that word means ! I feel sadly about them.
They may change; they must die; they are separated from
me ; and I ask myself why should I wish to love with all
the pains and penalties of such conditions ? I check myself
when expressing feelings like this, so much has been said of
it by the sentimental, who talk what they could not have
felt. But it is so deeply, sincerely so in me, that sometimes
it will overflow. Well, there is a heaven, — a heaven, —
a world of love, and love after all is the life-blood, the
existence, the all in all of mind."

In any sketch of Mrs. Stowe, however brief, it is needful
to take account of this spiritual experience, for in the
character thus forming lies the explanation of the force
which impelled her throughout her entire career, and with
this key one is able to unlock her mind as it busied itself
in varied pursuits.

Dr. Lymnn Beecher removed from Litchfield to Boston
in 1826, and for six years was pastor of a church there. He
had married again, and a younger group of children was
growing up. Harriet divided her time between her father's
house and her sister Catherine's school, sometimes paying
visits to her maternal grandmother. In 1832 a moro
important change came. Dr. Beecher was invited to the
presidency of Lane Theological Seminary in Cincinnati, and
on moving to that place, then the most important Western
community, he was accompanied by Catherine Beecher, who

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

was eager to establish there what would stand for a college
for women, and with Catherine went Harriet to be her
principal assistant. The family began their life in Cincin-
nati under many discomforts, and Harriet suffered much
from ill health. But she not only aided her sister in the
ambitious school they had set up, but made her first venture
in writing with a school geography which was published in
Cincinnati in 1833. In the winter of 1833-34 she spurred
herself to further effort, and competed for a prize of fifty
dollars offered by Mr. James Hall, editor of a newly estab-
lished magazine, the Western Month/)/, and won it with her
story Uncle Lot, to be found in the eleventh volume of this
edition. She joined a literary society, and contributed papers
to be read at its meetings ; but though she kept up a lively
correspondence with her former school friends, she does not
seem at first to have given herself much concern about writ-
ing for publication. Her interest was in the plans her sister
and she were forming for an elaborate system of schools in
Cincinnati.

The society in which the Beechers moved was naturally
affected largely by the seminary which had been established,
and an intimacy existed between the several members which
resulted, after the death of Eliza Tyler, the wife of one of
the professors, Calvin E. Stowe, in the marriage of Harriet
Beecher to the childless widower, January 6, 1836. There
are one or two passages in letters written at this time which
give one the impression that however deeply stirred this
girl of twenty-five may have been over this change in her
life, there was such a continuity in circumstance and occu-
pation that she was quickly adjusted to her new relations.

"Well, my dear G.," she writes to her schoolmate
Georgiana May, " about half an hour more and your old
friend, companion, schoolmate, sister, etc., will cease to be
Hatty Beecher and change to nobody knows who. My
dear, you are engaged and pledged in a year or two to

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xt

encounter a similar fate, and do you wish to knew how you
shall feel ? Well, my dear, I have been dreading and
dreading the time, and lying awake all last week wondering
how I should live through this overwhelming crisis, and lo !
it has come and I feel nothing at all.

" The wedding is to be altogether domestic ; nobody
present but my own brothers and sisters, and my old col-
league, Mary Dutton ; and as there is a sufficiency of minis-
try in our family, we have not even to call in the foreign
aid of a minister. Sister Katy is not here, so she will not
witness my departure from her care and guidance to that of
another. None of my numerous friends and acquaintance?
who have taken such a deep interest in making the connec-
tion for me even know the day, and it will be all done and
over before they know anything about it. Well, it is really
Q, mercy to have this entire stupidity come over one at such
a time. I should be crazy to feel as I did yesterday, or
indeed to feel anything at all. . . .

" Three weeks have passed since writing the above, and
my husband and self are now quietly seated by our own
fireside, as domestic as any pair of tame fowl you ever saw j
he writing to his mother and I to you. . . . And now, my
dear, perhaps the wonder to you, as to me, is how this mo-
mentous crisis in the life of such a wisp of nerve as myself
has been transacted so quietly. My dear, it is a wonder io
myself. I am tranquil, quiet, and happy. I look only on
the present, and leave the future with Him who has hith-
erto been so kind to me. ' Take no thought for the mor-
row ' is my motto, and my comfort is to rest on Him in
whose house there are many mansions provided when these
fleeting earthly ones pass away.

" Dear Georgy, naughty girl that I am, it is a month
that I have let the above lie by, because I got into a strain
of emotion in it that I dreaded to return to. Well, so it
shall be no longer. In about five weeks Mr. Stowe and

XVI HARRIET BEECH ER STOWE

myself start for New England. He sails the first of May,
I am going with him to Boston, New York, and other
places, and shall stop finally at Hartford, whence, as soon
as he is gone, it is my intention to return westward."

One may read between the lines of this letter the fluctua-
tions of feeling and the restlessness of an eager nature, affec-
tionate, demonstrative, swayed by impulse, and yet losing
itself in large, reverential emotion. A period of hardship
and strenuous labor under narrow circumstance was before
her, and for the next thirteen years she was to have that
discipline through sickness ard struggle with adversity,
which confirmed her power of sympathy and expression at
the same time that it strengthened the tendencies to retreat
within herself and carry on an active commerce with her
own thought, apparently unobservant of what was going on
about her.

The journey to Europe which Mr. Stowe took at this
time was in the interest of Lane Seminary and also of the
public school system of Cincinnati. He was absent a little
over seven months, and Mrs. Stowe lived meanwhile in her
father's family. She continued the habit of writing she had
early formed, and besides a daily journal letter to her hus-
band, contributed stories and essays for journals in Cincin-
nati and New York. The journal letter gives an animated
picture of the life which the family led at this time. The
situation of Cincinnati, a rapidly growing commercial cen-
tre separated by a river only from a slave-holding commu-
nity, made it inevitable that the question of slavery should
be raised in a training-school for ministers such as Lane
Seminary, and the period was one when the agitation of
abolition views was increasing and taking the shape of or-
ganization. The anti-slavery paper The PJManthropist,
established in Cincinnati by J. G. Birney and Dr. Gamaliel
Bailey, was suppressed and the office mobbed, and Mrs. Stowe
found herself in the midst of the excitement caused by this

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Xvil

and like events. Her brother Henry Ward Beecher was
editing a small daily paper which stoutly defended Birney,
and Mrs. Stowe aided him in his work. Lane Seminary
was threatened by the mob, and in such scenes was Mrs.
Stowe's married life begun. Her instincts and her principles
were strongly anti-slavery, though she does not appear at
this time to have allied herself with the abolitionists.

A few weeks before the return of Mr. Stowe from Europe,
Mrs. Stowe gave birth to twin daughters, and early in 1838
her eldest son was born ; and before she was thirty-seven
she had a little family of six children. It was to this fam-
ily that she gave her heart and soul during the years of
privation and sickness which she endured. Mr. Stowe also
suffered from ill health, and the father and mother alter-
nately sought recovery in absence from home, resting or at
water-cures. The letters which Mrs. Stowe wrote during
this period bear witness to the struggles which she made foi
the proper support and training of her children. She wrott
continually in the midst of distracting duties, and her hus-
band urged her on, not merely on this account, but because
he had great faith in her ability. " God has written it in
his book," he said in one of his letters, " that you must be
a literary woman, and who are we that we should contend
against God ? You must therefore make all your calcula-
tions to spend the rest of your life with your pen." The
Mayflower, published in 1843, was the first collection of
her purely literary efforts, but it was merely a convenient
preservation of her fugitive work, and she kept on with the
same kind of writing.

There were in the collection a few sketches which bore
on slavery, but if one were to judge, from this book, of Mrs.
Stowe's philanthropic impulses, it would be more to the
point to say that she used her pen at this time against the
evils rather of intemperance than of slavery. Nevertheless,
the contact with slavery during the eighteen years she spent

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

in Ohio, a time when the stress and strain of life kept her
mind alert, and a period too of the rising tide of moral
opposition, could not fail to make a strong impression upon
her nature. As an illustration of the undercurrent which
was running through her mind, we may take the account
given by Miss Dutton of a visit they made together to a
Kentucky estate, shortly after the Beechers came to Cin-
cinnati. " Harriet," she says, " did not seem to notice any-
thing in particular that happened, but sat much of the time
as though abstracted in thought. When the negroes did
funny things and cut up capers, she did not seem to pay the
slightest attention to them. Afterward, however, in read-
ing Uncle Tom, I recognized scene after scene of that visit
portrayed Math the most minute fidelity, and knew at once
where the material for that portion of the story (the Shelby
plantation) had been gathered."

It is most to the point that Mrs. Stowe lived in a family
circle which was keenly alive to what was going on about
them. Her father and her most intimate friends were zealous
advocates of liberty, and from childhood she had lived in an
atmosphere of earnest thought about the condition of public
affairs. " I was a child in 1820," she once wrote, " when
the Missouri question was agitated ; and one of the strongest
and deepest impressions on my mind was that made by my
father's sermons and prayers, and the anguish of his soul for
the poor slave at that time. I remember his preaching draw-
ing tears down the hardest faces of the old farmers in his
congregation. I well remember his prayers morning and
evening in the family for ' poor, oppressed, bleeding Africa,'
that the time of her deliverance might come ; prayers offered
with strong crying and tears, and which indelibly impressed
my heart, and made me Avhat I am from my very soul, the
enemy of all slavery. Every brother I have has been in his
sphere a leading anti-slavery man. As for myself and hus-
band, we have for the last seventeen years lived on the

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

border of a slave State, and we have never shrunk from the
fugitives, and we have helped them with all we had to give.
I have received the children of liberated slaves into a family
school, and taught them with my own children, and it has
Leeu the influence that we found in the church and by the
altar that has made us do all this."

In this last sentence may be read the most constant and
moving power in Mrs. Stowe's life, for she was a deeply
religious woman, and was stirred by a pity which constantly-
carried her in thought to Jesus Christ.

Her experience, as hinted at in the passage just quoted,
brought her into close contact with victims of the slave
system. Two or three instances of many may be cited for
their particular bearing on her later work. As she men-
tions, she took into her family, to be educated with her chil-
dren, some who were the children of liberated slaves. One
day, the mother of one of these, a particularly interesting
child, rushed in in great alarm with the news that the ex-
ecutor of a Kentucky estate to which she had belonged be
fore she was freed had seized upon the child, as one of the
assets of the estate, and had carried it off to be sold. The
money for the ransom of the child was raised by subscription
among the neighbors ; but the incident left a deep mark in
Mrs. Stowe's mind. Her father's house was more than once
the refuge of fugitive slaves. She received into her family
as a servant a colored girl from Kentucky. By the laws of
Ohio she was free, since she had been brought into the State
by her mistress, and left there ; but Mr. Stowe learned that
her former master was laying plans to kidnap her, and was
likely to succeed by the aid of unscrupulous officers, and in
the dead of night he and Henry Ward Beecher drove her
in a covered wagon twelve miles into the country to the
house of a friendly farmer. This farmer was Mr. Van Zandt,
a Kentuckian, who had set free his own slaves, and estab-
lished himself in Ohio. Mrs. Stowe herself, to quote from

XX HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

her Introduction, "had been called to write the letters for
a former slave woman, servant in her own family, to a
slave husband in Kentucky, who, trusted with unlimited
liberty, free to come and go on business between Kentucky
and Ohio, still refused to break his pledge of honor to his mas-
ter, though that master from year to year deferred the keeping
of his promise of freedom to the slave. It was the simple
honor and loyalty of this Christian black man who remained
in slavery rather than violate a trust, that first impressed
her with the possibility of such a character as, years after,
was delineated in Uncle Tom."

In the early summer of 1849 there was an epidemic of
cholera in Cincinnati. Both Mr. Stowe and Dr. Beecher
were absent, the former at the water-cure in Brattleboro,
Vermont, and Mrs. Stowe saw the scourge fall upon her
youngest born. The. death of this child came at the end of
the years of trial in the West. Mr. Stowe had been driven
to the conclusion that his own health and that of his family
suffered from the conditions they had been under, and he
accepted an invitation to the Collins Professorship of Natural
and Eevealed Keligion at Bowdoin College, Brunswick,
Maine. He could not leave Lane Seminary until his
successor had been found, so Mrs. Stowe with three of the
children went East in April to make ready the Brunswick
home against occupation by the whole family in the fall.
It was a trying experience for her, traveling with young
children, getting established in a new place, and forced at
every step to count the cost in the most rigid spirit of
economy, and in the midst of the season came the birth of
her youngest child. She wrote to a sister at the end of the
year: "From the time that I left Cincinnati with my chil-
dren to come forth to a country that I knew not of almost to
the present time, it has seemed as if I could scarcely breathe.
I was so pressed with care. My head dizzy with the whir]
of railroads and steamboats, then ten days' sojourn in Boston,

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

and a constant toil and hurry in buying my furniture
and equipments, and then landing in Brunswick in the
midst of a drizzly inexorable northeast storm, and beginning
the work of getting in order a deserted, dreary, damp old
house. . . . Then came on Mr. Stowe ; and then came the
eighth of July and my little Charley. I was really glad
for an excuse to lie in bed, for I was full tired, I can assure
you. . . . During this time I have employed my leisure hours
in making up engagements with newspaper editors. I have
written more than anybody or I myself would have thought.
I have taught an hour a day in our school, and I have read
two hours every evening to the children."

It was in the midst of this incessant activity, and when
turning to literature not only for the additions it brought
to a meagre income, but because it was a natural outlet for a
busy mind, that there came the great occasion when Uncle
Tom's Cabin found its genesis and execution. The story
of its production is so fully told by Mrs. Stowe herself that
it is needless to repeat here the details, yet it should be
noted that there was a concentration of influences at this time
leading to her resolution to do something, however slight,
toward awakening the public conscience. It may reason-
ably be said that her very removal from Cincinnati had an
important effect. In the quiet country town of Brunswick,
remote from the centre of agitation, she was not brought into
direct contact with the painful scenes which were enacting
upon the border line of slave territory through the operation
of the Fugitive Slave Act. All the more did memory and
imagination have full play. The letters which she received
from Boston and Cincinnati, and her own vivid recollection
of the scenes she had witnessed, were fuel upon the flame
which her moral indignation had kindled. She did not
need the appeal of others, but such an appeal came in a let-
ter from a sister-in-law. "If I could use a pen as you can,"

XXli HARRIET BELCHER STOWE

she wrote, " I would write something that would make this
whole nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is.'''

" A member of Mrs. Stowe's family well remembers the
scene in the little parlor in Brunswick when the, letter
alluded to was received. Mrs. Stowe herself read it aloud
to the assembled family ; and when she came to the passage,
'I would write something that would make this whole na-
tion feel what an accursed thing slavery is,' Mrs. Stowe rose
from her chair, crushing the letter in her hand, and with
an expression on her face that stamped itself on the mind
of her child, said : ' I will write something. I will if I
live.' "

Yet fixed as this determination was, it might almost be
said that she was but the instrument by which this book
came to be written ; that it owed its origin not so much to
her resolution as to a flood of conviction and feeling which
swept her along to the conclusion, and that in the writing
her whole religious nature found impassioned expression.
The consecration of her life entered into it, and the book be-
came in her purpose a Thus saith the Lord.

The publication of Uncle Tom's Cabin changed the cur-
rent of Mrs. Stowe's life by giving her at once the position
of a great public character. With her warm heart and her
impassioned nature she threw herself into the cause she had
espoused. She carried on an enormous correspondence with
friends in America and abroad, she raised money for the
emancipation of slaves, and she received numberless appeals
from the unfortunate and oppressed of every kind. Her
life of poverty was over, but her labor was increased, and
she gave herself freely and without counting the cost. One
story of her personal interest may be read partially in the
chapter of the Key which relates to the Edmondson family.
Uncle Tom's Cabin was published March 20, 1852, and
Mrs. Stowe spent the weeks that followed with her brother
Henry in Brooklyn. During her absence Professor Stowe

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii

received and accepted a call to the chair of Sacred Literature
in the Theological Seminary at Andover, Massachusetts, and
the summer was largely occupied by Mrs. ,Stowe in making
ready their new home there. She took possession of an
old stone building which had served successively as a work-
shop and a gymnasium and transformed it into a dwelling
which was popularly known as The Cabin, and so long as
the Stowes remained in Andover was the centre of a busy,
cheerful life. There was indeed at this time an expansion
of outward circumstance which had a marked effect on Mrs.
Stowe's temperament. The immediate large increase of in-
come, the change to a genial neighborhood, the outlook
upon a useful future, brought a sense of tranquillity and
hope.

" It seems almost too good to be true," Mrs. Stowe wrote
from Andover to her husband, " that we are going to have
such a house in such a beautiful place, and to live here
among all these agreeable people, where everybody seems to
love you so much and to think so much of you. I am al-
most afraid to accept it, and should not, did I not see the
Hand that gives it all and know that it is both firm and
true. He knows if it is best for us, and His blessing addeth
no sorrow therewith. I cannot describe to you the constant
undercurrent of love and joy and peace ever flowing through
my soul. I am so happy — so blessed ! "

If she had consulted her own pleasure only, Mrs. Stowe
would have occupied herself the coming winter with writ-
ing fiction, for she had already planned a story of New Eng-
land life ; but the stir which Uncle Tom's Cabin produced
made this impossible. She was challenged from every
quarter to prove the truth of the book whose force had be-
come so overpowering because it was true, and she plunged
into the labor involved in the writing of A Key to
Uncle Tom's Cabin.

" I am now writing a work," she says in a letter to Mrs,

XXIV HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Follen, dated February 16, 1853, " which will contain, per-
haps, an equal amount of matter with Uncle Tom's Cabin.
It will contain all the facts and documents on which that
story was founded, and an immense body of facts, reports
of trials, legal documents, and testimony of people now
living South, which will more than confirm every state-
ment in Uncle Tom's Cabin. I must confess that till I
began the examination of facts in order to write this book,
much as I thought I knew before, I had not begun to meas-
ure the depth of the abyss. The law records of courts
and judicial proceedings are so incredible as to fill me
with amazement whenever I think of them. It seems to
me that the book cannot but be felt, and, coming upon the
sensibility awaked by the other, do something."

When the spring came Mrs. Stowe was sick and ex-
hausted with her labor, and she and her husband gladly
accepted an invitation from the friends of emancipation in
England to cross the water and visit the old country.
W>th them went the Kev. Charles Beecher, Mrs. Stowe's
brother; and the record of the journey is contained in
*jhe two volumes of Sunny Memories prepared by the
Bister and brother. The journey was like a royal progress,
<so interested were all, high and low, to see the author of the
most popular book of the day, and the representative of a
great moral cause. Professor Stowe was obliged to return
to his duties in Andover in May, and Mrs. Stowe and Mr.
Beecher, after a brief tour on the continent, made another
rou'id of visits in England, and were in Andover once more
in ^ptember.

The European experience not only heightened Mrs.
Stowe's fame, it added to her voluminous correspondence;
and in the years which intervened before the war, espe-
cially before the organization of the Republican party in
1856, she conducted a vigorous campaign, writing letters
and articles, and giving aid by money and counsel in the

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH XXV

creation of an anti-slavery sentiment. Especially did she
ict as spokeswoman in appealing both to her own coun-
trywomen and to the women of England. But she did not
neglect her most powerful weapon. A volume of new facts
regarding slavery had been accumulating, and in 1855 and
during the spring of 1856 she was engaged upon the con-
struction of Dred, which she designed as a complement to
Uncle Tom's Cabin, throwing the weight of her argument
upon the deterioration of a society resting on a slave basis.

The completion of Dred left Mrs. Stowe in great need
of rest and change, and in the early summer of 1856 she
went again to Europe, accompanied by her husband, her
two eldest daughters, her son Henry, and her sister Mary,
Mrs. Thomas Perkins of Hartford. A special purpose of
the journey was to secure a copyright for an English edi-
tion of Dred. Mr. Stowe returned to Andover in Septem-
ber, and the rest of the party, after visiting the Duke of
Argyll in the Highlands, traveled slowly southward, crossed
the channel, and leaving Henry Stowe to return to his col-
lege work at Dartmouth, settled for a while in Paris.
There the daughters were left to study, and Mrs. Stowe and
Mrs. Perkins went to Italy, where they passed the remain-
der of the winter. After a spring in England, Mrs. Stowe
returned home, reaching Andover in June, 1857.

The prospect of a happy future was shattered at once
on her return by the sudden death by drowning of Henry
Stowe, and the summer was spent at Andover with a week
or two at Brunswick in slow recovery from the shock
which this terrible ill had brought. The experience was
to color some of her after writing, and found at this time
a reflection in the allegory of The Mourning Veil, which
she contributed to the first number of The Atlantic
Monthly. The establishment of that magazine brought
with it an urgent request to Mrs. Stowe to contribute to
its pages. Mr. Lowell, its first editor, had a strong respect

XXVI HAREIET BEECHER STOWE

for her dramatic faculty, and he took a very lively interest
in the serial story The Minister's Wooing, which began
with the number for December, 1858, and was published as
a book a year later, after its completion in the magazine.

A third visit to Europe was undertaken in the summer of
1859. As before, the completion of a new book was the
occasion of the journey, since at that time the only security
for the English publisher lay in the author's being on Eng-
lish soil when her book was actually published. Mrs. Stowe
was moved also by considerations of her own health and that
of her family, and by a desire to avail herself of fresh Euro-
pean experience for further writing. The youngest child
remained in America, but all the rest of the family accom-
panied her, though Professor Stowe returned to Andover
when his academic duties recalled him in the fall. Mrs.
Stowe herself did not return until the end of Jime, 1860.
She had passed the winter in Italy, and out of her life
there grew Agnes of Sorrento, which appeared first serially,
and afterward as a book, in 1863. This story, however,
was in a way preceded by The Pearl of Orr's Island, pro-
jected long before, though written as a serial after Agnes of
Sorrento had been begun. These two novels practically
closed Mrs. Stowe's career as a purely artistic creator of
fiction ou a broad scale. She was to write much fiction
^fter this, and some of it was her most characteristic work,
but for the next few years other interests in literature
commanded her attention, growing in part out of certain
changes in her outward circumstances.

In the year 1863 Professor Stowe retired from his pro-
fessorship at Andover, and it was decided to make the
family home in Hartford, so identified in Mrs. Stowe's
mind with her girlhood and her companions of that time,
and where two of her own sisters were now living. A
house was built in the suburbs of the city, and life was
taken up under conditions less academic and more civilian.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxvii

It was partly on this account, no doubt, that Mrs. Stowe's
mind was turned toward subjects of social morality ; and
within the next few years she wrote freely upon topics
which lend themselves less to the novel than to what may
be called fictitious essays, and there followed that series of
books, published first in The Atlantic, which, beginning
with House and Home Papers, ended with The Chimney
Corner. She contributed also to magazines for young
people ; but her most notable essay in pure story-telling was
in the publication, in 1869, of Oldtown Folks, and, two
years later, of Oldtoivn Fireside Stories, two books instinct
with rural New England spirit, and embodying, moreover,
the racy memories of his youth which Professor Stowe
enjoyed. These two books were separated by one in a
wholly different field, Lady Byron Vindicated, which grew
out of an Atlantic article which she had written in fulfill-
ment of an obligation which she felt she owed to a valued
friend, and, as she deemed, a misunderstood and traduced
woman.

Mrs. Stowe's son, Frederick William, had entered the
army in the war for the Union, and had been promoted for
bravery to the rank of captain ; but he received serious
wounds, which so impaired his health that his mother took
the step not long after the close of the war of buying an
estate in Florida, hoping that he might there recover his
shattered health. The plantation at Mandarin became the
winter home of the family for many years, and Mrs. Stowe,
with her unfailing interest in the life about her, set about
various schemes for Christianizing her neighborhood. She
had herself some time before transferred her connection
from the Congregational to the Episcopal communion, and
she was very eager to extend church privileges in the
locality. The Floridian experience found expression in a
series of letters afterward published as Palmetto Leaves.

Meanwhile the establishment of a weekly paper, The

xxvili HAKRIET BEECHER STOWE

Christian Union, in which her brother Henry was largely
interested, led to her resuming serial writing, and she pub-
lished successively My Wife and I and We and Our Neigh-
bors, and in 1878 she returned in a manner to her earlier
interests as well as took the opportunity to write with some
reference to her own ecclesiastical change, when she pub-
lished the story of old-fashioned New England life, Poganuc
People. But for the most part her religious nature domi-
nated now her intellectual effort, and in short stories, in
poetry, and in religious meditations, she gave expression to
an ever deepening sense of the Divine mystery. In writing
to her son of Poganuc People, on which she was engaged,
she said with sincerity : " I would much rather have writ-
ten another such a book as Footsteps of the Master, but all,
even the religious papers, are gone mad on serials." Her
strong leaning toward religious subjects was manifest also
during this period in her correspondence with George Eliot,
with Mrs. Browning, and others. Her husband had known
some very unusual psychical experiences, and the current
phenomena which passed under the name of spiritualism
attracted the attention of both, and formed a considerable
element in correspondence.

Literature was distinctly a means of livelihood, yet her
waning strength made composition an exertion, and what
she had once done freely she did now, freely still, yet with
conscious effort. The interest excited by Dickens' readings
from his own works led to a more general practice of the
same form of publication, and Mrs. Stowe resorted with a
cheerful courage and good humored resolution to this mode
of support, knowing well that her lack of strength and un-
familiarity with the task were against her, but that the real
desire of the public was to come face to face with a cele-
brated woman. Mrs. Fields, in her Days with Mrs. Stoive,
has given a graphic account of the plunge into this new
career : —

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH XXIX

" Her first reading actually took place in Springfield, not
Boston, and the next day she unexpectedly arrived at our
cottage at Manchester-by-the-Sea. She had read the pre-
vious evening in a large public hall, had risen at five o'clock
that morning and found her way to us. Her next readings
were given in Boston, the first in the afternoon, at the
Tremont Temple. She was conscious that her efforts at
Springfield had not been altogether successful, — she had
not held her large audience, — and she was determined to
put the whole force of her nature into this afternoon read-
ing at the Tremont Temple. She called me into her bed-
room, where she stood before the mirror with her short
gray hair, which usually lay in soft curls around her brow,
brushed erect and standing stiffly. ' Look here, my dear,'
she said ; ' now I am exactly like my father, Dr. Lyman
Beecher, when he was going to preach,' and she held up her
forefinger warningly. It was easy to see that the spirit of
the old preacher was revived in her veins, and the afternoon
would show something of his power. An hour later, when
I sat with her in the anteroom waiting for the moment of
her appearance to arrive, I could feel the power surging up
within her. I knew she was armed for a good fight.

" That reading was a great success. She was alive in
every fibre of her being : she was to read portions of Uncle
Tom's Cabin to men, women, and children who could hardly
understand the crisis which inspired it, and she determined
to effect the difficult task of making them feel as well as
hear. With her presence and inspiration they could not fail
to understand what her words had signified to the genera-
tion that had passed through the struggle of our war.
When her voice was not sufficient to make the audience
hear, men and women rose from their seats and crowded
round her, standing gladly, that no word might be lost. It
was the last leap of the flame which had burned out a great
Wrong."

XXX HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Mrs. Stowe felt keenly the separation from her husband
that this venture compelled. He had become weakened by
disease, and for a long period she devoted herself to his
care. But through all experiences she kept a brave faith
and a willing ear for the troubles of others. Her friends
remained constant to her, and she had resources in sketching
and reading which were unfailing. Once there was a semi-
public recognition of her greatness, when, upon her sev-
entieth birthday, her publishers, in conjunction with her
old-time friends, Governor and Mrs. Claflin, gave a garden
party in her honor, and the world stopped for a moment to
remember one of its great benefactors. But she went back
to her home and to the domestic care which held her in her
old age. After her husband's death, in 1886, she relaxed
something of her hold on life. The seclusion which she had
fallen into with him remained for herself, and she passed
her old age in the quiet of her home. There, sheltered
from the world, she lived, while that world went on its
way, entering upon new warfares and engaged still in mor-
tal combat with evil, but strengthened for the encounter by
the life and work of one woman, who produced a book which
once set men's souls on fire, and still inflames the imagina-
tion by the ardor with which it was conceived.

She died in Hartford, Wednesday, July 1, 1896, and was
buried by the side of her husband in the Andover cem-
etery.

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

TO THE NEW EDITION.

HE introduction of a new American Edition of " Uncle
Tom's Cabin " gives an occasion for a brief account of that
book, — how it came to be, how it was received in the
world, and what has been its history throughout all the
nations and tribes of the earth, civilized and uncivilized, into whose
languages it has been translated.

Its author had for many years lived in Ohio on the confines of a
slave state, and had thus been made familiar with facts and occur-
rences in relation to the institution of American slavery. Some of the
most harrowing incidents related in the story had from time to time
come to her knowledge in conversation with former slaves now free
in Ohio. The cruel sale and separation of a married woman from her
husband, narrated in Chapter XII., "Select Incidents of Lawful
Trade," had passed under her own eye while passenger on a steam-
boat on the Ohio Eiver. Her husband and brother had once been
obliged to flee with a fugitive slave woman by night, as described
in Chapter IX., and she herself had been called to write the letters
for a former slave woman, servant in her own family, to a slave
husband in Kentucky, who, trusted with unlimited liberty, free to
come and go on business between Kentucky and Ohio, still refused
to break his pledge of honor to his master, though that master from
year to year deferred the keeping of his promise of freedom to the
slave. It was the simple honor and loyalty of this Christian black
man, who remained in slavery rather than violate a trust, that first
impressed her with the possibility of such a character as, years after,
was delineated in Uncle Tom.

From time to time incidents were brought to her knowledge
•which deepened her horror of slavery. In her own family she had
a private school for her children, and as there was no provision for
the education of colored children in her vicinity, she allowed them

XXX11 INTRODUCTION.

the privilege of attending. One day she was suddenly surprised by
a visit from the mother of one of the brightest aud most amusing of
these children. It appeared that the child had never been emanci-
pated, and was one of the assets of an estate in Kentucky, and had been
seized and carried off by one of the executors, and was to be sold by
the sheriff at auction to settle the estate. The sum for the little
one's ransom was made up by subscription in the neighborhood, but
the incident left a deep mark in Mrs. Stowe's mind as to the practi-
cal workings of the institution of slavery.

But it was not for many years that she felt any call to make use
of the materials thus accumulating. In fact, it was a sort of general
impression upon her mind, as upon that of many humane people in
those days, that the subject was so dark and painful a one. so in-
volved in difficulty and obscurity, so utterly beyond human hope or
help, that it was of no use to read, or think, or distress one's sell
about it. There was a class of professed Abolitionists in Cincinnati
and the neighboring regions, but they were unfashionable persons
and few in number. Like all asserters of pure abstract right as
applied to human affairs, they were regarded as a species of moral
monomaniacs, who, in the consideration of one class of interests and
wrongs, had lost sight of all proportion and all good judgment.
Both in church and in state they were looked upon as " those that
troubled Israel."

It was a general saying among conservative and sagacious people
that this subject was a dangerous one to investigate, and that no-
body could begin to read and think upon it without becoming prac-
tically insane ; moreover, that it was a subject of such delicacy that
no discussion of it could be held in the free States without im-
pinging upon the sensibilities of the slave States, to whom alone
the management of the matter belonged.

So when Dr. Bailey — a wise, temperate, and just man, a model of
courtesy in speech and writing — came to Cincinnati and set up an
antislavery paper, proposing a fair discussion of the subject, there
was an immediate excitement. On two occasions a mob led by
slaveholders from Kentucky attacked his office, destroyed his print-
ing-press, and threw his types into the Ohio River. The most of
the Cincinnati respectability, in church and state, contented them-
selves on this occasion with reprobating the imprudence of Dr.
Bailey in thus " arousing the passions of our fellow-citizens of Ken*
tucky." In these mobs and riots the free colored people were
threatened, maltreated, abused, and often had to flee for their lives.

INTRODUCTION. XXX Hi

Even the servants of good families were often chased to the very
houses of their employers, who rescued them with difficulty, and
the story was current in those days of a brave little woman who
defended her black waiter, standing, pistol in hand, on her own
doorstep, and telling the mob face to face that they should not enter
except over her dead body.

Professor Stowe's house was more than once a refuge for fright-
ened fugitives on whom the very terrors of death had fallen, and°the
inmates slept with arms in the house and a large bell ready to
call the young men of the adjoining Institution, in case the mob
should come up to search the house. Nor was this a vain or im-
probable suggestion, for the mob in their fury had more than once
threatened to go up and set fire to Lane Seminary, where a large
body of the students were known to be abolitionists. Only the fact
that the Institution was two miles from the city, with a rough and
muddy road up a long high hill, proved its salvation. Cincinnati
mud, far known for its depth and tenacity, had sometimes its advan-

tages.

The general policy of the leaders of society, in cases of such dis-
turbances, was after the good old pattern in Judaea, where a higher
One had appeared, who disturbed the traders in swine ; " they be-
sought him that he would depart out of their coasts." Dr. Bailey
at last was induced to remove his paper to Washington, and to con-
duct his investigation under the protection of the national Capitol, — •
and there for years he demonstrated the fact that the truth may be
spoken plainly yet courteously, and with all honorable and Christian
fairness on the most exciting of subjects. In justice to the South it
must be said, that his honesty, courage, and dignity of character won
for him friends even among the most determined slaveholders.
Manly men have a sort of friendship for an open, honest opponent,
like that of Richard Co3ur de Lion for Salaam.

Far otherwise was the fate of Lovejoy, who essayed an anti-slavery
paper at Alton, Illinois. A mob from Missouri besieged the office,
Bet the house on fire, and shot him at the door. It was for some
days reported that Dr. Beecher's son, Rev. Edward Beecher, known
to have been associated with Lovejoy at this period, had been
killed at the same time. Such remembrances show how well
grounded were the fears which attended every effort to agitate this
subject. People who took the side of justice and humanity in those
days had to count the cost and pay the price of their devotion. In
t&ose times, when John G. Fee, a young Kentucky student in Lane

XXXIV INTRODUCTION.

Seminary, liberated his slaves, and undertook to preach the gospel
of emancipation in Kentucky, he was chased from the state, and dis-
inherited by his own father. Berea College, for the education of
Colored and white, stands to-day a triumphant monument of his
persistence in w^ll-doing. Mr. Van Zandt, a Kentucky farmer,
set free hia slaves and came over and bought a farm in Ohio. Sub-
sequently, from an impulse of humanity, he received and protected
fugitive slaves in the, manner narrated in Chapter IX. of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin.'' For this he was seized, imprisoned, his property
attached, and he was threatened with utter ruin. Salmon P. Chase,
then a rising young lawyer in Cincinnati, had the bravery to appear
as his lawyer. As he was leaving the court-room, after making his
plea, one of the judges remarked, " There goes a young man who has
ruined himself to-day," and the sentiment was echoed by the general
voice of society. The case went against Van Zandt, and Mr. Chase
carried it up to the Supreme Court of the United States, which,
utterly ignoring argument and justice, decided it against him. But
a few years more, and Salmon P. Chase was himself Chief Justice of
the United States. It was one of those rare dramatic instances in
which courage and justice sometimes bring a reward even in this
life.

After many years' residence in Ohio, Mrs. Stowe returned to make
her abode in New England, just in the height of the excitement pro-
duced by the Fugitive Slave Law. Settled in Brunswick, Maine,
she was in constant communication with friends in Boston, who
wrote to her from day to day of the terror and despair which that
law had occasioned to industrious, worthy colored people who had
from time to time escaped to Boston, and were living in peace and
security. She heard of families broken up and fleeing in the dead
of winter to the frozen shores of Canada. But what seemed to her
more inexplicable, more dreadful, was the apparent apathy of the
Christian world of the free North to these proceedings. The pul-
pits that denounced them were exceptions ; the voices raised to re-
monstrate few and far between.

In New England, as at the. West, professed abolitionists were a
small, despised, unfashionable band, whose constant remonstrances
from year to year had been disregarded as the voices of imprac-
ticable fanatics. It seemed now as if the system once confined to
the Southern states was rousing itself to new efforts to extend itseli
fill over the North, and to overgrow the institutions of free society.

With, astonishment and distress Mrs. Stowe heard on all sides,

INTRODUCTION. XXXV

from Tmmane and Christian people, that the slavery of the blacks
was a guaranteed constitutional right, and that all opposition to it
endangered the national Union. With this conviction she saw that
even earnest and tender-hearted Christian people seemed to feel it a
duty to close their eyes, ears, and hearts to the harrowing details of
slavery, to put down all discussion of the subject, and even to assist
slave-owners to recover fugitives in Northern states. She said tc
herself, these people cannot know what slavery is ; they do not see
what they are defending ; and hence arose a purpose to write some
sketches which should show to the world slavery as she had herself
seen it. Pondering this subject, she was one day turning over a
little bound volume of an anti-slavery magazine, edited by Mrs. Dr.
Bailey, of Washington, and there she read the account of the escape
of a woman with her child on the ice of the Ohio River from Ken-
tucky. The incident was given by an eye-witness, one who had
helped the woman to the Ohio shore. This formed the first salient
point of the story. She began to meditate. The faithful slave hus-
band in Kentucky occurred to her as a pattern of Uncle Tom, and
the scenes of the story began gradually to form themselves in her
mind.

The first part of the book ever committed to writing was the
death of Uncle Tom. This scene presented itself almost as a tangi-
ble vision to her mind while sitting at the communion-table in the
little church in Brunswick. She was perfectly overcome by it, and
could scarcely restrain the convulsion of tears and sobbings that
shook her frame. She hastened home and wrote it, and her husband
being away she read it to her two sons of ten and twelve years of
age. The little fellows broke out into convulsions of weeping, one
of them saying, through his sobs, " Oh ! mamma, slavery is the
most cursed thing in the world ! " From that time the story can
less be said to have been composed by her than imposed upon her.
Scenes, incidents, conversations rushed upon her with a vividness
and importunity that would not be denied. The book insisted upon
getting itself into being, and would take no denial. After the two
or three first chapters were written, she wrote to Dr Bailey of the
" National Era " that she was planning a story that might probably
run through several numbers of the " Era." In reply she received
an instant application for it, and began immediately to send oft
weekly instalments. She was then in the midst of heavy domestic
cares, with a young infant, with a party of pupils in her family to
Whom she was imparting daily lessons with her own children, and

XXXvi INTRODUCTION.

with untrained servants requiring constant supervision, but the
story was so much more intense a reality to her than any other
earthly thing that the weekly instalment never failed. It was there
in her mind day and night waiting to be written, and requiring but
a few moments to bring it into visible characters.

The weekly number was always read to the family circle before it
was sent away, and all the household kept up an intense interest in
the progress of the story.

As the narrative appeared in the " Era," sympathetic words began
to come to her from old workers who had long been struggling
in the anti-slavery cause. She visited Boston, went to the Anti-
Slavery rooms, and reinforced her repertoire of facts by such docu-
ments as Theodore D. Weld's " Slavery As It Is," the Lives of Josiah
Henson and Lewis Clarke, particulars from both whose lives were
inwoven with the story in the characters of Uncle Tom and George
Harris.

In shaping her material the author had but one purpose, to show
the institution of slavery truly, just as it existed. She had visited
in Kentucky, had formed the acquaintance of people who were just,
upright, and generous, and yet slaveholders. She had heard their
views and appreciated their situation ; she felt that justice required
that their difficulties should be recognized and their virtues acknowl-
edged. It was her object to show that the evils of slavery were the
inherent evils of a bad system, and not always the fault of those who
had become involved in it and were its actual administrators.

Then she was convinced that the presentation of slavery alone,
in its most dreadful forms, would be a picture of such unrelieved
horror and darkness as nobody could be induced to look at. Of
set purpose, she sought to light up the darkness by humorous and
grotesque episodes, and the presentation of the milder and more
amusing phases of slavery, for which her recollection of the never-
failing wit and drollery of her former colored friends in Ohio
gave her abundant material. As the story progressed, a young
publisher, J. P. Jewett, of Boston, set his eye upon it, and made
overtures for the publication of it in book form, to which she con-
sented. After a while she had a letter from him expressing hia
fears that she was making the story too long for a one- volume pul>
lication. He reminded her that it was an unpopular subject, and
that people would not willingly hear much about it ; that one shor*
volume might possibly sell, but if it grew to two it might prove a
fatal obstacle to its success. Mrs. Stowe replied that she did not

INTRODUCTION. XXXVll

make the story, that the story made itself, and that she could not
stop it till it was done. The feeling that pursued her increased in
intensity to the last, till with the death of Uncle Tom it seemed as
if the whole vital force had left her. A feeling of profound dis-
couragement came over her. Would anybody read it ? Would any-
body listen ? Would this appeal, into which she had put heart,
soul, mind, and strength, which she had written with her heart's
blood, — would it, too, go for nothing, as so many prayers and groans
and entreaties of these poor suffering souls had already gone ? There
had just been a party of slaves who had been seized and thrown
into prison in Washington for a vain effort to escape. They were,
many of them, partially educated, cultivated young men and women,
to whom slavery was intolerable. When they were retaken and
marched through the streets of Washington, followed by a jeering
crowd, one of them, named Emily Edmonson, answered one man
who cried shame upon her, that she was not ashamed, — that she
was proud that she and all the rest of them had made an effort
for liberty! It was the sentiment of a heroine, but she and her
sisters were condemned no less to the auction-block.

It was when the last proof-sheet had been sent to the office that
Mrs. Stowe, alone and thoughtful, sat reading Horace Mann's elo-
quent plea for those young men and women, then about to be con-
signed to the slave warehouse of Bruin & Hill in Alexandria, — a
plea eloquent, impassioned, but vain, as all other pleas on that side
had ever proved in all courts hitherto. It seemed to her that there
was no hope, that nobody would hear, nobody would read, nobody
would pity ; that this frightful system, which had already pursued
its victims into the free states, might at last even threaten them hi
Canada.

So, determined to leave nothing undone which remotely could
help the cause she pleaded, she wrote one letter to Prince Albert
to accompany a copy of her work ; another to T. B. Macaulay, of
whose father she had heard in her youth as an anti-slavery laborer ;
one to Charles Dickens, whose sympathy for the slave had been
expressed more than once ; one to Charles Kingsley, and one to Lord
Carlisle. These letters were despatched to their destination with
early copies of the book, and all in due time acknowledged to th(
author.

"Uncle Tom's Cabin" was published March 20, 1852. TH,
despondency of the author as to the question whether anybody
would read or attend to her appeal was soon dispelled. Ten thou-

XXXviii INTRODUCTION.

sand copies were sold in a few days, and over three hundred thou-
sand within a year, and eight power-presses, running day and night,
were barely able to keep pace with the demand for it. It was read
'everywhere, apparently, and by everybody, and she soon began to
hear echoes of sympathy all over the land. The indignation, the
pity, the distress, that had long weighed upon her soul seemed to
pass off from her, and into the readers of the book.

The following note from a lady, an intimate friend, was a speci-
men of many which the post daily brought her : —

MY DEAR MRS. STOWE, — I sat up last night until long after one
o'clock, reading and finishing "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I could not leave
it any more than I could have left a dying child; nor could I restrain an
almost hysterical sobbing for an hour after I laid my head upon my
pillow. I thought I was a thoroughgoing abolitionist before, but your
book has awakened so strong a feeling of indignation and of compassion,
that I seem never to have had any feeling on this subject till now. But
what can we do ? Alas ! alas ! what can we do ? This storm of feeliiif

has been raging, burning like a very fire in my bones all the livelong
night:, and through all my duties this morning it haunts me, — I cannot
away with it. Gladly would I have gone out in the midnight storm last
night, and, like the blessed martyr of old, been stoned to death, if that
could have rescued these oppressed and afflicted ones. But that would
avail nothing. And now what am I doing ? Just the most foolish thing
in the world. "Writing to you, who need no incitement; to you, who
have spun from your very vitals this tissue of agony and truths ; for I
know, I feel, that there are burning drops of your heart's best blood here
concentrated. To you, who need no encouragement or sympathy of
mine, and whom I would not insult by praise, — 0 no, you stand on too
high an eminence for praise ; but methinks I see the prayers of the poor,
the blessings of those who are ready to perish, gathering in clouds about
you, and forming a halo round your beloved head. And surely the tears
of gentle, sympathizing childhood, that are dropping about many a
Christian hearthstone over the wrongs and cruelties depicted by you so
touchingly, will water the sod and spring up in bright flowers at your
feet. And better still, I know, — I see, in the flushing cheek, the
clenched hand, and indignant eye of the young man, as he dashes down
the book and paces the room to hide the tears that he is too proud to
show, too powerless to restrain, that you are sowing seed which shall yef
spring up to the glory of God, to the good of the poor slave, to the
enfranchisement of our beloved though guilty country.

Mrs. Stowe at this period visited New York. It was just at the
time of Jenny Lind's first visit to this country, when the young

INTRODUCTION. XXXIX

Swedish vocalist was the idol of the hour, and tickets to her con-
certs were selling at fabulous prices. Mrs. Stowe's friends, applying
for tickets, found all sold ; but, on hearing of the application, the
cantatrice immediately sent Mrs. Stowe two tickets to two of the
best seats in the house. In reply to Mrs. Stowe's note of thanka

came this answer : —

May 23, 1852.

MY DEAR MADAM, — Allow me to express my most sincere thanks for
your very kind letter, which I was very happy to receive.

You must feel and know what deep impression "Uncle Tom's Cabin "
has made upon every heart that can feel for the dignity of human exist-
ence ; so I, with my miserable English, would not even try to say a word
about the great excellency of that most beautiful book, but / must thank
you for the great joy I have felt over that book.

Forgive me, my dear madam ; it is a great liberty I take in thus ad-
dressing you, I know, but I have so wished to find an opportunity to pour
out my thankfulness in a few words to you that I cannot help this in-
truding. I have the feeling about "Uncle Tom's Cabin" that great
changes will take place by and by from the impression people receive out
of it, and that the writer of that book can " fall asleep " to-day or to-
morrow with the bright sweet conscience of having been a strong, power-
ful means, in the Creator's hand, of operating essential good in one of the
most important questions for the welfare of our black brethren. God
bless and protect you and yours, dear madam, and certainly God's hand
will remain with a blessing over your head.

Once more, forgive my bad English and the liberty I have taken, and
believe me to be, dear madam,

Yours most truly,

JENNY GOLDSCHMIDT, nie LIND.

A more cheering result was in the testimony of many colored
persons and fugitive slaves, who said to her, " Since that book has
come out, everybody is good to us ; we find friends everywhere.
It's wonderful how kind everybody is."

In one respect, Mrs. Stowe's expectations were strikingly different,
from fact. She had painted slaveholders as amiable, generous, and
just. She had shown examples among them of the noblest and
most beautiful traits of character ; had admitted fully their tempta-
tions, their perplexities, and their difficulties, so that a friend of
hers who had many relatives in the South wrote to her in exulta-
tion : " Your book is going to be the great pacificator ; it will unite
both North and South." Her expectation was that the professed
abolitionists would denounce it as altogether too mild in its deal-

XI INTRODUCTION.

ings with slaveholders. To her astonishment, it was the extreme
abolitionists who received, and the entire South who rose up
against it.

Whittier wrote to Garrison in May, 1852 : —

"It did me good to see thy handwriting, friend William, reminding
me of the old days when we fought the beasts at Ephesus together in
Philadelphia. Ah me ! I am no longer able to take active part in the
conflicts and skirmishes which are preparing the way for the great battle
of Armageddon, — the world- wide, final struggle between freedom and
slavery, — but, sick or well, in the body or out, I shall be no unconcerned
spectator. I bless God that, through the leadings of his Providence, I
have a right to rejoice in the certain victory of the right.

" What a glorious work Harriet Beecher Stowe has wrought ! Thanks
for the Fugitive Slave Law ! Better for slavery that law had never been
enacted, for it gave occasion for ' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' ! "

In a letter from Garrison to Mrs. Stowe, he said that he estimated
the value of anti-slavery writing by the abuse it brought. " Since
' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' has been published," he adds, " all the defenders
of slavery have let me alone, and are spending their strength in
abusing you." In fact, the post-office began about this time to bring
her threatening and insulting letters from the Legrees and Haleys
of the slave-markets, — letters so curiously compounded of blas-
phemy, cruelty, and obscenity, that their like could only be ex-
pressed by John Bunyan's account of the speech of Apollyon, —
" He spake as a dragon."

After a little, however, responses began to come from across the
water. The author had sent copies to Prince Albert, to Charles
Dickens, to T. B. Macaulay, to Kingsley, and to Lord Carlisle. The
receipt of the copy sent to Prince Albert was politely acknowledged,
with thanks, by his private secretary. Her letter is here given : —

To HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ALBERT :

The author of this work feels that she has an apology for presenting it
to Prince Albert, because it concerns the great interests of humanity, and
from those noble and enlarged views of human progress which she has at
different times seen in his public speeches, she has inferred that he bar
an eye and a heart for all that concerns the development and welfare of
the human family.

Ignorant of the forms of diplomatic address, and the etiquette of rank,
may she be pardoned for speaking with the republican simplicity of her
own country, as to one who possesses a nobility higher than that of rank
or station.

INTRODUCTION. xli

This simple narrative is an honest attempt to enlist the -sympathies
both of England and America in the sufferings of an oppressed race, to
whom in less enlightened days both England and America were unjust.

The wrong on England's past has been atoned in a manner worthy of
herself, nor in all her strength and glory is there anything that adds such
Justre to her name as the position she holds in relation to human freedom.
(May America yet emulate her example !)

The appeal is in greater part, as it should be, to the writer's own
country, but when fugitives by thousands are crowding British shores,
sue would enlist for them the sympathy of British hearts.

We, in America, have been told that the throne of earth's mightiest
nation is now filled by one less adorned by all this world can gi;e of
power and splendor, than by a good and noble heart, — a heart ever
ready to feel for the suffering, the oppressed, and the lowly.

The author is encouraged by the thought that beneath the royal in-
signia of England throbs that woman's and mother's heart. May she ask
that he who is nearest to her would present to her notice this simple
stoiy. Should it win from her compassionate nature pitying thoughts
tor those multitudes of poor outcasts, who have fled for shelter to the
shadow of her throne, it were enough.

May the blessing of God rest on the noble country from which America
draws her lineage, and on her the Queen of it. Though all the thrones
be shaken, may hers, founded deep in the hearts of her subjects, be
established to her and to her children, through all generations !

With deep respect,

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

BRUNSWICK, ME., March 20, 1852.

Her letter to Charles Dickens and his reply are as follows : —

To THE AUTHOR OF "DAVID COPPERFIELD" :

The Author of the following sketches offers them to your notice as the
first writer in our day who turned the attention of the high to the joys
and sorrows of the lowly. In searching out and embellishing the forlorn,
the despised, the lonely, the neglected and forgotten, lies the true mis
sion which you have performed for the world. There is a moral bearing
in it that far outweighs the amusement of a passing hour. If I may hope
to do only something like the same, for a class equally ignored and
despised by the fastidious and refined of my country, I shall be happy.

Yours very truly,

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, LONDON, July 17, 1852.

DEAR MADAM, — I have read your book with the deepest interest and
sympathy, and admire, more than I can express to you, both the generous

xlii INTKODDCTION.

feeling which inspired it, and the admirable power with which it is eze>
cuted.

If I might suggest a fault in what has so charmed me, it would be that
you go too far and seek to prove too much. The wrongs and atrocities of
slavery are, God knows ! case enough. I doubt there being any warrant
for making out the African race to be a great race, or for supposing the
future destinies of the world to lie in that direction ; and I think this
extreme championship likely to repel some useful sympathy and support.

Your book is worthy of any head and any heart that ever inspired a
book. I am much your debtor, and I thank you most fervently and
sincerely.

CHARLES DICKENS.
MRS. HARRIET B. STOWE.

The following is the letter addressed to Macaulay, and his
reply : -

HON. T. B. MACAULAY :

One of the most vivid recollections of my early life is the enthusiasm
excited by reading your review of Milton, an enthusiasm deepened as I
followed successively your writings as they appeared. A desire to hold
some communion with minds that have strongly swayed and controlled
our own is, I believe, natural to every one, and suggested to my mind
the idea of presenting to you this work. When a child between eight
and ten years of age, I was a diligent reader of the " Christian Observer,"
and in particular of the articles in which the great battle was fought
against the slave-trade. An impression was then made on my mind
which will never be obliterated. A similar conflict is now convulsing
this nation, —an agitation which every successive year serves to deepen
and widen. In this conflict the wise and good of other lands can materi-
ally aid us.

The public sentiment of Christianized humanity is the last court of ap-
peal in which the cause of a helpless race is to be tried, and nothing oper-
ates more sensibly on this country than the temperate and just expression
of the sentiments of distinguished men in your own. Every such ex-
pression is a shot which strikes the citadel. There is a public sentiment
on this subject in England which often expresses itself in a way which
does far less good than it might if those who expressed it had a more
accurate knowledge and a more skilful touch, and yet even that has done
good, though it has done harm also. The public sentiment of nations is
rising to be a power stronger than that of fleets and armies, and it needs
to be skilfully and wisely guided. He who should direct the feelings of
England on this subject wisely and effectively might do a work worthy
of your father, of Clarkson and Wilberforce, and all those brave men who
began the great conflict for God and humanity.

INTRODUCTION. xliii';

1 much misjudge youi mind and heart if the subject is one on which
you can be indifferent, or can speak otherwise than justly, humanely, and
effectively.

Yours with deep respect,

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
BRUNSWICK, ME., March 20, 1852.

THE ALBANY, LONDON, May 20, 1852.

MADAM, — I sincerely thank you for the volumes which you have'
done ine the honor to send me. 1 have read them — I cannot say with
pleasure ; for no work on such a subject can give, pleasure, but witn high
respect for the talents and for the benevolence of the writer.

I have the honor to be, madam,

Your most faithful servant,

T. B. MACAULAY.

In October of 1856 Macaulay wrote to Mrs. Stowe : —

" I have just returned from Italy, where your fame seems to throw
that of all other writers into the shade. There is no place where ' Uncle
Tom ' (transformed into ' II Zio Tom ') is not to be found. By this time
I have no doubt he has ' Dred ' for a companion."

Soon after Macaulay's letter came to her, Mrs. Stowe began to
receive letters from other distinguished persons expressing a far
warmer sympathy with the spirit and motive of her work.

FROM LORD CARLISLE.

LONDON, July 8, 1852.

MADAM, — I have allowed some time to elapse before I thanked you
for the great honor and kindness you did me in sending to me from
yourself a copy of " Uncle Tom's Cabin." I thought it due to the subject
of which I perceived that it treated not to send a mere acknowledgment,
as I confess from a motive of policy I am apt to do upon the first arrival
of a book. I therefore determined to read before I wrote.

Having thus read, it is not in the stiff and conventional form of com-
pliment, still less in the technical language of criticism, that I am about
to speak of your work. I return my deep and solemn thanks to Almighty
God, who has led and enabled you to write such a book. I do feel, indeed,
the most thorough assurance that, in his good Providence, such a hook
cannot have been written in vain. I have long felt that Slavery is by
far the topping question of the world and age we live in, including all
that is most thrilling in heroism and most touching in distress, — in short,
the real Epic of the Universe. The self-interest of the parties most nearly
Concerned on the one hand, the apathy and ignorance of unconcerned ob-

INTRODUCTION,

servers on the other, have left these august pretensions to drop very much
out of sight, and hence ray rejoicing that a writer has appeared who wil]
be read and must be felt, and that, happen what may to the transactions
of slavery, they will no longer be suppressed.

I trust that what I have just said was not required to show the entire
sympathy I entertain with respect to the main truth ana leading scope of
your high argument, but we live in a world only too apt to regard the
accessories and accidents of a subject above its real and vital essence.
No one can know so well as you how much the external appearance of
the negro detracts from the romance and sentiment which undoubtedly
might attach to his position and to his wrongs ; and on this account it
does seem to me proportionately important that you should have brought
to your portraiture great grace of style, great power of language, a play
of humor which relieves and lightens even the dark depth of the back-
ground which you were called«upon to reveal, a force of pathos which, to
give it the highest praise, does not lag behind all the dread reality, and,
above all, a variety, a discrimination, and a truth in the delineation of
character which, even to my own scanty and limited experience of the
society you describe, accredits itself instantaneously and irresistibly.
There is one point which, in face of all that your book has aimed at and
achieved, I think of extremely slight importance, but which I will never-
theless just mention, if only to show that I have not been bribed into this
fervor of admiration. I think, then, that whenever you speak of England
and her institutions it is in a tone which fails to do them justice. I do not
know what distinct charges you think could be established against our
aristocracy and capitalists ; but you generally convey the impression that
the same oppressions in degree, though not in kind, might be brought
home to them which are now laid to the charge of Southern slaveholders.
Exposed to the same ordeal, I grant they might very probably not stand
the test better. All I contend for is, that the circumstances in which
they are placed, and the institutions by which they are surrounded, make
the parallel wholly inapplicable. I cannot but suspect that your view
has been in many respects derived from composers of fiction and others
among ourselves, who, writing with distinguished ability, have been more
successful in delineating and Dissecting the morbid features of our modern
society than in detecting the principle which is at fault or suggesting
the appropriate remedy. My own belief is — liable, if you please, to na-
tional bias — that our capitalists are very much the same sort of persons
as your own in the Northern States, with the same mixtures and inequal-
ities of motive and action. With respect to our aristocracy, I should
really be tempted to say that, tried by their conduct on the question of
Free Trade, they do not sustain an unfavorable comparison with your
uppermost classes. I need not repeat how irrevelant, after all, I feel what
1 have said upon this head to be to the main issues included in your work.

INTRODUCTION. Xlv

There is little doubt, too, that as a nation we have our special failings, and
one of them probably is that we care too little about what other nations
think of us. Nor can I wish my countrymen ever to forget that their
own past history should prevent them from being forward in casting ac-
cusations at their transatlantic brethren on the subject of slavery. With
great ignorance of its actual miseries and horrors, there is also among
us great ignorance of the fearful perplexities and difficulties with which
its solution could not fail to be attended. I feel, however, that there is
a considerable difference between reluctant acquiescence in what you in-
herit from the past, and voluntary fresh enlargements and reinforcements
of the system. For instance, I should not say that the mode in which
euch an enactment as the Fugitive Slave Law has been considered in this
country has at all erred upon the side of overmuch indignation.

I need not detain you longer. I began my letter with returning thanks
to Almighty God for the appearance of your work, and I offer my humble
and ardent prayer to the same Supreme Source that it may have a marked
agency in hastening the great consummation, which I should feel it a
practical atheism not to believe must be among the unfulfilled purposes
of the Divine Power and Love.

I have the honor to be, madam,

Your sincere admirer and well-wisher,

CARLISLE.

MRS. BEECHER STOWE.

FROM REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY.

EVERSLET, August 12, 1852.

MY DEAR MADAM, — Illness and anxiety have prevented my acknowl
edging long ere this your kind letter and your book, which, if success bs-
a pleasure to you, has a success in England which few novels, and cer-
tainly no American book whatsoever, ever had. I cannot tell you how
pleased I am to see coming from across the Atlantic a really healthy in-
digenous growth, "autochthones," free from all second and third hand
Germanisms and Italianisms, and all other unrealisms.

Your book will do more to take away the reproach from your great and
growing nation than many platform agitations and speechif'yings.

Here there is but one opinion about it. Lord Carlisle (late Morpeth)
assured me that he believed the book, independent of its artistic merit
(of which hereafter), calculated to produce immense good, and he can
speak better concerning it than I can, for I pay you a compliment in say-
ing that I have actually not read it through. It is too painful, — I can-
not bear the sight of misery and wrong that I can do nothing to alleviate.
But I will read it through and re-read it in due time, though when I hava
done so, I shall have nothing more to say than what every one says now,
that it is perfect.

xlvi INTRODUCTION.

I cannot resist transcribing a few lines which I received this morning
from an excellent critic : "To my mind it is the greatest novel ever
written, and though it will seem strange, it reminded me in a lower
sphere more of Shakespeare than anything modern I have ever read ; not
in the, style, nor in the humor, nor in the pathos, — though Eva set me a
crying worse than Cordelia did at sixteen, — but in the many-sidedness,
and, above all, in that marvellous clearness of insight and outsight, which
makes it seemingly impossible for her to see any one of her characters
without showing him or her at once as a distinct man or woman different
from all others."

I have a debt of personal thanks to you for the book, also, from a most
noble and great woman, my own mcther, a West-Indian, who in great
sickness and sadness read your book with delighted tears. What struck
her was the way in which you, first of all writers, she said, had dived
down into the depths of the negro heart, and brought out his common
humanity without losing hold for a moment of his race peculiarities.
But I must really praise you no more to your face, lest I become rude and
fulsome. May God bless and prosper you, and all you write, is the ear-
nest prayer, and, if you go on as you have begun, the assured hope, of
your faithful and obliged servant,

CHARLES KINGSLET.

FROM THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.*

LONDON, December 14, 1852.

MADAM, — It is very possible that the writer of this letter may be
wholly unknown to you. But whether my name be familiar to your ears,
or whether you now read it for the first time, I cannot refrain from
expressing to you the deep gratitude that I feel to Almighty God, who
has inspired both your heart and your head in the composition of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin."

It would be out of place here to enumerate the various beauties, singu-
lar, original, and lasting, which shine throughout the work. One con-
viction, however, is constantly present to my mind, — the conviction
that the gospel alone can elevate the intellect, even to the highest
point. None but a Christian believer could have composed "Para-
dise Lost." None but a Christian believer could have produced such a
book as yours, which has absolutely startled the whole world, and im-
pressed many thousands by revelations of cruelty and sin which give us
an idea of what would be the uncontrolled dominion of Satan on this
fallen earth.

Your character of Eva is true. I have, allowing for the difference in
sex- and the influences of a southern as compared with a northern cli-

• Formerly Lord Ashley.

INTRODUCTION. xlvil

mate, seen such myself in zeal, simplicity, and overflowing affection to
God and man. It pleases God to show, every now and then, such speci-
mens of his grace, and then remove them before they are tarnished by
the world.

You are right, too, about Topsy. Our Eagged Schools will afford you
many instances of poor children, hardened by kicks, insults, and neglect,
moved to tears and to docility by the first word of kindness. It opens
new feelings, develops, as it were, a new nature, and brings the
wretched outcast into the family of man. I live in hope — God grant it
may rise to faith ! — that this system is drawing to a close. It seems aa
though our Lord had sent out this book as the messenger before his face
to prepare his way before him. It may be that these unspeakable hor-
rors are now disclosed to drive us to the only "hope of all the ends of
the earth," the second advent of our blessed Saviour. Let us continue,
as St. Paul says, "fervent and instant in prayer," and may we at the
great day of account be found, with millions of this oppressed race, among
the sheep at the right hand of our common Lord and Master !

Believe me, madam, with deep respect,

Your sincere admirer and servant,

SHAFTESBURY.

MP.S. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

About the same time with this, Mrs. Stowe received a letter froai
Hon. Arthur Helps, accompanying a review of her work, written by
himself, in a leading periodical. The main subject of Mr. Helps'a
letter was the one already alluded to in Lord Carlisle's letter, on
the relation of the capitalists and higher classes of England to the
working-classes, as compared with the relations of slaveholders and
slaves in America. Her reply to this letter being shown to Arch-
bishop Whately, she was surprised by a letter from him to the fol-
lowing purport : —

MADAM, — The writer of the article in " Eraser's Magazine " has favored
me with a copy of your most interesting letter to him, and from it I
collect that you will be g]ad to learn that I have been negotiating for the
insertion of articles by very able hands on your truly valuable work in
the " Edinburgh Review " and the "North" British," both which are of
wider circulation and more influence than that magazine.

The subject was discussed at the Statistical Section, of which I was
president, of the British Association meeting in Belfast, and I then took
occasion to call attention to your work.

It became evident, then, that the book had found powerful sup-
port and sympathy on English shores.

Xlviii INTRODUCTION.

Sampson Low, who afterwards became Mrs. Stowe's English pub«
Usher, thus records its success in England : —

" From April to December, 1852, twelve different editions (not reissues)
at one shilling were published, and within the twelve months of its first
appearance no less than eighteen different houses in London were engaged
in supplying the demand that had set in. The total number of editions
was forty, varying from the fine illustrated edition of 15 s. to the cheap
popular one at 6 d.

"After carefully analyzing these editions and weighing probabilities
with ascertained facts, I am able pretty confidently to say that the aggre-
gate number circulated in Great Britain and her colonies exceeded one
million and a half."

Meanwhile Mrs. Stowe received intelligence of its appearance in.
Sweden from the pen of the accomplished Fredeiika Bremer.

FROM FREDERIKA BREMER.

STOCKHOLM, January 4, 1853.

MY DEAREST LADY, — How shall I thank you for your most precious,
dost delightful gift ? Could I have taken your hand many a time, while
I was reading your work, and laid it on my beating heart, you would
have known the joy, the happiness, the exultation, it made me experience !
It was the work I had long wished for, that I had anticipated, that I
wished while in America to have been able to write, that I thought must
come in America as the uprising of the woman's and mother's heart on
the question of slavery. I wondered that it had not come earlier. I
wondered that the woman, the mother, could look at these things and be
silent, — that no cry of noble indignation and anger would escape her
breast, and rend the air, and pierce to the ear of humanity. I wondered,
and, God be praised ! it has come. The woman, the mother, has raised
her voice out of the very soil of the new world in behalf of the wronged
ones, and her voice vibrates still through two great continents, opening
all hearts and minds to the light of truth.

How happy you are to have been able to do it so well, to have been
able to win all hearts while you so daringly proclaimed strong and bitter
truths, to charm while you instructed, to amuse while you defended the
cause of the little ones, to touch the heart with the softest sorrow while
you aroused all our boldest energies against the powers of despotism.

In Sweden your work has been translated and published, as feuille-
ton in our largest daily paper, and has been read, enjoyed, and praised
by men and women of all parties as I think no book here has been

enjoyed and praised before I look upon you as the heroine who

has won the battle. I think it is won ! I have a deep unwavering

INTRODUCTION. xlix

faith in the strong humanity of the American mind. It will ever work
to throw out whatever is at war with that humanity, and to make it
fully alive nothing is needed but a truly strong appeal of heart to heart,
and that has been done in "Uncle Tom."

You have done it, dear, blessed, happy lady. Receive in these poor
words my congratulations, my expressions of love and joy, my womanly
pride in you as my sister in faith and love. God bless you forever !

FREDERIKA BREMER.

The author also received letters from France, announcing the en-
thusiastic reception of her work there. Madame George Sand, then
one of the greatest powers of the literary world of France, thus
introduced it to the public : —

To review a book, the very morrow after its appearance, in the very
journal where it has just been published, is doubtless contrary to usage,
but in this case it is the most disinterested homage that can be rendered,
since the immense success attained by this work at its publication does
not need to be set forth.

This book is in all hands and in all journals. It has, and will have,
editions in every form ; people devour it, they cover it with tears. It is
no longer permissible to those who can read not to have read it, and one
mourns that there are so many souls condemned never to read it, — helots
of poverty, slaves through ignorance, for whom society has been unable
as yet to solve the double problem of uniting the food of the body with
the food of the soul.

It is not, then, it cannot be, an officious and needless task to review
this book of Mrs. Stowe. We repeat, it is a homage, and never did a
generous and pure work merit one more tender and spontaneous. She is
far from us ; we do not know her who has penetrated our hearts with
emotions so sad and yet so sweet. Let us thank her the more. Let the
gentle voice of woman, the generous voice of man, with the voices of little
children, so adorably glorified in this book, and those of the oppressed of
this old world, let them cross the seas and hasten to say to her that she is
esteemed and beloved !

If the best eulogy which one can make of the author is to love her, the
truest that one can make of the book is to love its very faults. It has
faults, - - we need not pass them in silence, we need not evade the dis-
cussion of them, — but you need not be disturbed about them, you who
are rallied on the tears you have shed over the fortunes of the poor vic-
tims in a narrative so simple and true.

These defects exist only in relation to the conventional rules of art,
which never have been and never will be absolute. If its judges, pos-
sessed with the love of what they call " artistic work," find unskilful

1 INTRODUCTION".

treatment in the book, look well at them to see if their eyes are dry when
they are reading this or that chapter.

They will recall to your mind that Ohio senator, who, having sagely
demonstrated to his little wife that it is a political duty to refuse asylum
and help to the fugitive slave, ends by taking two in his own carriage, in
a dark night, o\ er fearful roads, where he must from time to time plunge
into mud to his waist to push on the vehicle. This charming episode in
" Uncle Tom " (a digression, if you will) paints well the situation of most
men placed between their prejudices and established modes of thought
and the spontaneous and generous intuitions of their hearts.

It is the history, at the same time affecting and pleasing, of many in-
dependent critics. Whatever they may be in the matter of social or lit-
erary questions, those who pretend always to judge by strict rules are
often vanquished by their own feelings, and sometimes vanquished when
unwilling to avow it.

I have always been charmed by the anecdote of Voltaire, ridiculing and
despising the fables of La Fontaine, seizing the book and saying, " Look
here, now, you will see in the very first one" — he reads one. '; Well, that
is passable, but see how stupid this is ! "• - he reads a second, and finds
after all that it is quite pretty ; a third disarms him again, and at last he
throws down the volume, saying, with ingenuous spite, " It 's nothing but
a collection of masterpieces." Great souls may be bilious and vindic-
tive, but it is impossible for them to remain unjust and insensible.

It, however, should be said to people of culture, who profess to be able
to give correct judgments, that if their culture is of the tiniest kind it will
never resist a just and right emotion. Therefore it is that this book, de-
fective according to the rules of the modern French romance, intensely
interests everybody and triumphs over all criticisms in the discussions it
causes in domestic circles.

For this book is essentially domestic and of the family, — this book,
with its long discussions, its minute details, its portraits carefully stud-
ied. Mothers of families, young girls, little children, servants even, can
read and understand them, and men themselves, even the most superior,
cannot disdain them. We do not say that the success of the book is
because its great merits redeem its faults ; we say its success is because
of these very alleged faults.

For a long time we have striven in France against the prolix explana-
tions of Walter Scott. We have cried out against those of Balzac, but on
consideration have perceived that the painter of manners and character
bas never done too much, that every stroke of the pencil was needed for
the general effect. Let us learn then to appreciate all kinds of treatment,
tfhen the effect is good, and when they bear the seal of a master hand.

Mrs. Stowe is all instinst ; it is the very reason that she appears t<r
4ome not to have talent. Has she not talent ? What is talent ? Nothr

INTRODUCTION. li

ing, doubtless, compared to genius ; but has she genius ? I cannot say that
she has talent as one understands it in the world of letters, but she has
genius, as humanity feels the need of genius, — the genius of goodness, not
that of the man of letters, but of the saint. Yes, — a saint ! Thrice holy
the soul which thus loves, blesses, and consoles the martyrs. Pure, pene-
trating, and profound the spirit which thus fathoms the recesses of the
human soul. Noble, generous, and great the heart which embraces in
her pity, in her love, an entire race, trodden down in blood and mire
under the whip of ruffians and the maledictions of the impious.

Thus should it be, thus should we value things ourselves. We should
feel that genius is heart, that power is faith, that talent is sincerity,
and, finally, success is sympathy, since this book overcomes us, since it
penetrates the breast, pervades the spirit, and fills us with a strange sen-
timent of mingled tenderness and admiration for a poor negro lacerated
by blows, prostrate in the dust, there gasping on a miserable pallet, his
last sigh exhaled towards God.

In matters of art there is but one rule, to paint and to move. And
where shall we find creations more complete, types more vivid, situations
more touching, more original, than in " Uncle Tom," - those beautiful
relations of the slave with the child of his master, indicating a state
of things unknown among us ; the protest of the master himself against
slavery during that innocent part of life when his soul belongs to God
alone { Afterwards, when society takes him, the law chases away God,
and interest deposes conscience. In coming to mature years the infant
ceases to be man and becomes master. God dies in his soul.

What hand has ever drawn a type more fascinating and admirable than
St. Clair, — this exceptional nature, noble, generous, and loving, but too
soft and too nonchalant to be really great ? Is it not man himself, human
nature itself, with its innate virtues, its good aspirations, and its de-
plorable failures ? — this charming master who loves and is beloved, who
thinks and reasons, but concludes nothing and does nothing ! He spends
in his day treasures of indulgence, of consideration, of goodness ; he dies
without having accomplished anything. The story of his precious life is
all told in a word — "to aspire and to regret." He has never learned to
will. Alas ! is there not something of this even among the bravest and
best of men ?

The life and death of a little child and of a negro slave ! — that is the
whole book ! This negro and this child are two saints of heaven ! The
affection that unites them, the respect of these two perfect ones for each
other, is the only love-story, the only passion of the drama. I know not
what other genius but that of sanctity itself could shed over this affection
and this situation a charm so powerful and so sustained. The child read-
ing the Bible on the knees of the slave, dreaming over its mysteries and
•mjoying them in her exceptional maturity ; now covering him with flow-

Ill INTKODUCTION.

era like a doll, and now looking to him as something sacred, passing from
tender playfulness to tender veneration, and then fading away through a
mysterious malady which seems to be nothing but the wearing of pity in
a nature too pure, too divine, to accept earthly law ; dying finally in th»
arms of the slave, and calling him after her to the bosom of God, — all
this is so new, so beautiful, that one asks one's self in thinking of it whether
the success which has attended the work is after all equal to the height
of the conception.

Children are the true heroes of Mrs. Stowe's works. Her soul, the most
motherly that could be, has conceived of these little creatures in a halo of
grace. George Shelby, the little Harry, the cousin of Eva, the regretted
babe of the little wife of the Senator, and Topsy, the poor diabolic, excel-
lent Topsy, — all the children that one sees, and even those that one does
not see in this romance, but of whom one has only a few words from their
desolate mothers, seem to us a world of little angels, white and black,
where any mother may recognize some darling of her own, source of her
joys and tears. In taking form in the spirit of Mrs. Stowe, these children,
without ceasing to be children, assume ideal graces, and come at last to
interest us more than the personages of an ordinary love-story.

Women, too, are here judged and painted with a master hand ; not
merely mothers who are sublime, but women who are not mothers either
in heart or in fact, and whose infirmities are treated with indulgence or
with rigor. By the side of the methodical Miss Ophelia, who ends by
learning that duty is good for nothing without love, Marie St. Clair is a
frightfully truthful portrait. One shudders in thinking that she exists,
thnt she is everywhere, that each of us has met her and seen her, per-
haps, not far from us, for it is only necessary that this charming creature
should have slaves to torture, and we should see her revealed complete
through her vapors and her nervous complaints.

The saints also have their claw ! it is that of the lion. She buries it
deep in the conscience, an<\ a little of burning indignation and of terrible
eareasm docs not, after all, misbecome this Harriet Stowe, this woman so
gentle, so humane, so religious, and full of evangelical unction. Ah !
yes, she is a very good woman, but not what we derisively call " goody
good." Hers is a heart strong and courageous, which in blessing the
unhappy and applauding the faithful, tending the feeble and succoring
the irresolute, does not hesitate to bind to the pillory the hardened tyrant,
to show to the world his deformity.

She is, in the true spirit of the word, consecrated. Her fervent Chris-
tianity sings the praise of the martyr, but permits no man the right to
perpetuate the wrong. She denounces that strange perversion of Scripture
which tolerates the iniquity of the oppressor because it gives opportunity
for the virtues of the victims. She calls on God himself, and threatens in
his name ; she shows us human law on one side, and God on the other 1

INTRODUCTION. liii

Let no one say that, because she exhorts to patient endurance of wrong,
she justifies those who do the wrong. Read the beautiful page where
George Harris, the white slave, embraces for the first time the shores of
a free territory, and presses to his heart wife and child, who at last are
his own. What a beautiful picture, that ! What a large heart-throb !
what a triumphant protest of the eternal and inalienable right of man to
liberty !

Honor and respect to you, Mrs. Stowe ! Some day your recompense,
which is already recorded in heaven, will come also iii this world.

GEORGE SAND.
NOHANT, December 17, 1852.

Madame L. S. Belioc, also a well-known and distinguished writer,
the translator of Miss Edgeworth's and of other English works into
French, says : —

44 When the first translation of ' Uncle Tom ' waspublished in Paris there
was a general hallelujah for the author and for the cause. A few weeks
after, M. Charpentier, one of our best publishers, called on me to ask a
new translation. I objected that there were already so many it might
prove a failure. He insisted, saying, ' II n'y aura jamais assez de lecteurs
pour un tei livre,' and he particularly desired a special translation for his
own collection, ' Bibliotheque Charpentier,' where it is catalogued, and
where it continues now to sell daily. 'La Case de 1'Oncle Tom' was the
fifth, if I recollect rightly, and a sixth illustrated edition appeared some
months after. It was read by high and low, by grown persons and chil-
dren. A great enthusiasm for the anti-slavery cause was the result. The
popularity of the work in France was immense, and no doubt influenced
the public mind in favor ot the North during the war of secession."

The next step in the history of " Uncle Tom " was a meeting at
Stafford House, when Lord Shaftesbury recommended to the women,
of England the sending of an " affectionate and Christian address to
the women of America."

This address, composed by Lord Shaftesbury, was taken in hand
for signatures by energetic canvassers in all parts of England, and
also among resident English on the Continent. The demand for
signatures went as far forth as the city of Jerusalem. When all the
signatures were collected, the document was forwarded to the care
of Mrs. Stowe in America, with a letter from Lord Carlisle, recom-
mending it to her, to be presented to the ladies of America in such
way as she should see fit.

It was exhibited first at the Boston Anti-slavery fair, and no*,1

liv INTRODUCTION.

remains in its solid oak case a lasting monument of the feeling called
forth by " Uncle Tom's Cabin."

It is in twenty-six thick folio volumes, solidly bound in morocco,
with the American eagle on the back of each. On the first page of
the first volume is the address, beautifully illuminated on vellum,
and following are the subscribers' names, filling the volumes. There
are 562,448 names of women of every rank of life, from the nearest
in rank to the throne of England to the wives and daughters of the
humblest artisan and laborer. Among all who signed it is fair to
presume there was not one who had not read the book, and did not,
at the time of signing, feel a sympathy for the cause of the oppressed
pejple whose wrongs formed its subject. The address, with its
many signatures, was simply a relief to that impulsive desire to do
something for the cause of the slave, which the reading of " Uncle
Tom's Cabin " appeared to inspire.

Of the wisdom of this step there have been many opinions. No-
body, however, can doubt that Lord Shaftesbury, who had spent a
long life in labors to lift burdens from the working-classes of Eng-
land, and who had redeemed from slavery and degradation English
women and children in its mines and collieries, had thereby acquired
a certain right to plead for the cause of oppressed working-classes in
all countries.

The address was received as a welcome word of cheer and encour-
agement by that small band of faithful workers who for years had
stood in an unfashionable minority ; but so far as the feeling ex-
pressed in it was one of real Christian kindliness and humility, it
was like a flower thrown into the white heat of a furnace. It added
intensity, if that were possible, to that terrific conflict of forces which
was destined never to cease till slavery was finally abolished.

It was a year after the publication of " Uncle Tom," that Mrs.
Stowe visited England, and was received at Stafford House, there
meeting all the best known and best worth knowing of the higher
circles of England.

The Duchess of Sutherland, then in the height of that majestic
beauty and that noble grace of manner which made her a fit repre-
sentative of English womanhood, took pleasure in showing by this
demonstration the sympathy of the better class of England with that
small unpopular party in the United States who stood for the rights
of the slave.

On this occasion she presented Mrs. Stowe with a solid gold
bracelet made in the form of a slave's shackle, with the words, " We

INTRODUCTION. h

trust it is a memorial of a chain that is soon to be broken." On
two of the links were inscribed the date of the abolition of the slave-
trade, March 25, 1807, and of slavery in English territory, August
1, 1834. On another liiik was recorded the number of signature?
to the address of the women of England.

At the time such a speech and the hope it expressed seemed likt
a Utopian dream. Yet that bracelet has now inscribed upon its
other links the steps of American emancipation : " Emancipation
in District of Columbia, April 16, 1862"; "President's proclama-
tion abolishing slavery in rebel states, January 1, 1863" ; "Mary-
land free, October 13, 1864"; " Missouri free, January 11, 1865."
" Constitutional amendment " (forever abolishing slavery in the
United States) is inscribed on the clasp of the bracelet. Thus what
seemed the vaguest and most sentimental possibility has become a
feet of history.

A series of addresses presented to Mrs. Stowe at this time by
public meetings in different towns of England, Scotland, and Ire-
land, still remain among the literary curiosities relating to this
book. The titles of these are somewhat curious : " Address from
the Inhabitants of Berwick-upon-Tweed " ; " Address from the In-
habitants of Dalkeith " ; Address from the Committee of the Glas-
gow Female Anti-slavery Society " ; " Address from the Glasgow
University Abstainers' Society"; "Address from a Public Meet-
ing in Belfast, Ireland " ; " Address from the Committee of the
Ladies' Anti-slavery Society, Edinburgh " ; " Address from the City
of Leeds."

All these public meetings, addresses, and demonstrations of sym-
pathy were, in their time and way, doubtless of perfect sincerity.
But when the United States went into a state of civil war, these
demonstrations ceased.

But it is due to the brave true working-classes of England to say
that in this conflict, whenever they thought the war was one of
justice to the slave, they gave it their sympathy, and even when it
brought hardship and want to their very doors, refused to lend
themselves to any popular movement which would go to crush the
oppressed in America.

It is but justice also to the Duchess of Sutherland to say that
although bv the time our war was initiated she had retired from

O v

her place as leader of society to the chamber of the invalid, yet her
sympathies expressed in private letters ever remained true to the
cause of freedom.

M INTRODUCTION.

Her son-in-law, the Duke of Argyll, stood almost alone in the
House of Lords in defending the cause of the Northern States. It
is, moreover, a significant fact that the Queen of England, in concur-
rence with Prince Albert, steadily resisted every attempt to enlist
the warlike power of England against the Northern States.

But Almighty God had decreed the liberation of the African race,
and though Presidents, Senators, and Representatives united in de-
claring that such were not their intentions, yet by great signs and
mighty wonders was this nation compelled to listen to the voice
that spoke from heaven, — " Let my people go."

In the darkest hour of the war, when defeat and discouragement
had followed the Union armies, and all hearts were trembling with
fear, Mrs. Stowe was in the Senate-Chamber at Washington, and
heard these words in the Message of President Lincoln : —

" If this struggle is to be prolonged till there be not a house in the
land where there is not one dead, till all the treasure amassed by the un-
paid labor of the slave shall be wasted, till every drop of blood drawn by
the lash shall be atoned by blood drawn by the sword, — we can only bow
and say, ' Just and true are thy ways, thou King of Saints ! ' '

Such words were a fit exponent of the Emancipation Proclama-
tion, which, though sown in weakness, was soon raised in power,
and received the evident benediction of God's providence.

" Uncle Tom's Cabin," in the fervor which conceived it, in the
feeling which it inspired through the world, was only one of a line
of ripples marking the commencement of mighty rapids, moving by
forces which no human power could stay to an irresistible termi-
nation,— towards human freedom.

Now the war is over, slavery is a thing of the past ; slave-pens,
blood-hounds, slave-whips, and slave-comes are only bad dreams of
the night ; and now the humane reader can afford to read " Uncle
Tom's Cabin " without an expenditure of torture and tears.

For many years Mrs. Stowe has had a home in the Southern States,
and she has yet to meet an intelligent southern man or woman who
does not acquiesce in the extinction of slavery, and feel that the life
of free society is as great an advantage to the whites as to the blacks.
Slavery has no mourners ; there is nobody who wishes it back.

As to the influence of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " in various other
lands of the earth whither it has been carried, intelligence has some-
times come to the author through the American missionaries and
other sources. The three following letters are specimens.

In a letter from Miss Florence Nightingale, October 26. 1856, she
lays : —

INTRODUCTION". Ivil

" I hope it may be some pleasure to you, dear madam, to hear that
•Uncle Tom ' was read by the sick and suffering in our Eastern Military
Hospitals with intense interest. The interest in that book raised many
a sull'erer who, while he had not a grumble to bestow upon his own mis-
fortunes, had many a thought of sorrow and just indignation for those
which you brought before him. It is from the knowledge of such evils so
brought home to so many honest hearts that they feel as well as know
them, that we confidently look to their removal in God's good time."

From the Armenian Convent in the Lagoon of Venice came a
most beautiful Armenian translation of " Uncle Torn," with a letter
from the principal translator.

Rev. Mr. Dwight thus wrote to Professor Stowe from Constanti-
nople, September 8, 1855 : -

" ' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' in the Armenian language ! Who would have
thought it ? 1 do not suppose your good wife, when she wrote that book,
thought that she was going to missionate it among the sons of Haig in
all their dispersions, following them along the banks of the Euphrates,
sitting down with them in their towns and villages under the shade of
hoary Ararat, travelling with them in their wanderings even to India
and China. But 1 have it in my hands ! in the Armenian of the present
day, the same language in which I speak and think and dream. Now
do not suppose this is any of my work, or that of any missionary in the
field. The translation has been made and book printed at Venice by a
fraternity of Catholic Armenian Monks perched there on the Island of
St. Lazarus. It is in two volumes, neatly printed and with plates, I
think translated from the French. It has not been in any respect ma-
terially altered, and when it is so, not on account of religious sentiment.
The account of the negro prayer and exhortation meetings is given in
full, though the translator, not knowing what we mean by people's becom-
ing Christians, took pains to insert at the bottom of the page that at
these meetings of the negroes great effects were sometimes produced by
the warm-hearted exhortations and prayers, and it often happened that
heathen negroes embraced Christianity on the spot.

One of your former scholars is now in my house, studying Armenian,
and the book which I advised him to take as the best for the language is
this ' Uncle Tom's Cabin.'"

Two or three other letters will conclude this repertoire.

86 SAUCHIEHALL STREET, GLASGOW,

16th April, 1853.
MRS. H. B. STOWE,

MADAM, — When persons of every rank in this country are almost
vying with each other who is to show you most respect, you might per-

Jviii INTRODUCTION.

haps think but little at being addressed by an exile, who. offers you hit
heartfelt thanks, not for the mere gratification which the reading of
" Uncle Tom's Cabin " afforded, but for the services you have rendered
to the cause of humanity and of my country. You may be surprised at
hearing of services rendered to my country (Poland) ; yet so it is. The
unvarnished tale you published cannot fail to awaken the nobler feeling?
of man in every reader, it instils into their minds that fundamental
Christian precept to love our fellow-beings, and it is by the spread of
universal benevolence and not by revolutions that the cause of humanity
is best promoted.

But you have done more than that, although you may be unconscious
of it. A mother yourself, you have given comfort to other mothers.
That foreign land where such pure benevolence as is taught in " Uncle
Tom's Cabin " is honored, cannot be a bad land, and though letters from
their children do not always reach Polish mothers, your book is accessi-
ble to them, and gives them the conviction that their offspring, far as
they are from them, are still within reach of maternal feelings.

A still higher good you have done to many a man by the picture of the
patient faith of Uncle Tom. It was the custom of some persons to sneer
at faith, on the supposition that it implied a blind belief in all that the
clergyman utters. Your book has helped to dispel that delusion, and
faith begins to be seen by some as something nobler, as the firm convic-
tion of the mind that higher aims are placed before man than the grati-
fication of his appetites and desires ; that it is, in short, that strength of
mind which restrains him from doing evil when his bad passions lead him
into temptation.

I cannot address you in the name of a body, but as an exile, as a man
belonging to the family of mankind, I beg to offer you my thanks and my
wishes. May God bless you, may your days be many and prosperous,
and may the noble aim you proposed yourself in writing " Uncle Tom's
Cabin" be speedily accomplished ! If I may add a request, I would beg
of you to pray now and then for the poor Polish mothers, — a good per-
son's prayer may be acceptable.

I am, madam,

Your most obedient servant,

CHARLES F. MULLER.

WAVERLEY IN BELMONT, October 26, 1860.
MRS. H. B. STOWE.

DEAR MADAM, — I will not make any apology for the liberty which I
take of writing to you, although I cannot claim any personal acquaint-
ance. At any rate, I think you will excuse me. The facts which I wish
to communicate will, I doubt not, be of sufficient interest to justify me.

It was my privilege, for such I shall esteem it on many accounts, to

INTKODUCTION. lix

receive into my family and have under my especial care the young Brah-
min whose recent visit to this' country you must be acquainted with. I
mean Joguth Chunder Gangooly, the first and only individual of his
caste who has visited this country. Being highly intelligent and famil-
iar with the social and intellectual character of the Hindoos of his native
land, he gave me much information for which, in my scanty knowledge
of that country, I was unprepared. Among other things he assured me
that " Uncle Tom's Cabin " was a book as well known and as much read
in Bengal among his own people as here in America, that it had been
translated into their language, and been made a household book. He
himself showed a familiar acquaintance with its contents, and assured me
that it had done not a little to deepen the loathing of slavery in the
minds of the Hindoos, and also to qualify their opinion of our country.

The facts which he gave me I believe to be substantially true, and
deemed them such as would have an interest for the author of the book
in question. Though I grieve for the wrong and shame which disgraces
my country, I take a laudable pride in those productions of the true-
hearted that appeal to the sympathies of all nations, and find a ready
response in the heart of humanity.

With high respect,

Yours truly,

JAMES THUKSTON.

From MRS. LEONOWENS, formerly English Governess in the Family of

the King of Siam.

48 INGLIS STREET, HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA,

October 15, 1878.
MRS.H. B. STOWE.

DEAR MADAM, — The following is the fact, the result of the transla-
tion of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " into the Siamese language, by my friend
Sonn Klean, a lady of high rank at the court of Siam. I enclose it to
you here, as related in one of my books.

" Among the ladies of the harem I knew one woman who more than
all the rest helped to enrich my life, and to render fairer and more beau-
tiful every lovely woman I have since chanced to meet. Her name trans-
lated itself, and no other name could have been more appropriate, into
' Hidden Perfume.' Her dark eyes were clearer and calmer, her full
lips had a stronger expression of tenderness about them, and her brow,
which was at times smooth and open, and at others contracted with pain,
grew nobler and more beautiful as through her studies in English the
purposes of her life strengthened and grew deeper and broader each day.
Our daily lessons and translations from English into Siamese had become
a part of her happiest hours. The first book we translated was ' Uncle
Tom's jCabin,' and it soon became her favorite book. She would read it

\x INTRODUCTION.

over and over again, though she knew all the characters by heart and
spoke of them as if she had known them all her life. On the 3d of Jan-
uary, 1867, she voluntarily Unrated all her slaves, men, women, and
children, one hundred and thirty in all, saying, ' I am wishful to be
good like Harriet Beecher Stowe, and never again to buy human bodies,
but only to let them go free once more.' Thenceforth, to express her
entire sympathy and affection for the author of ' Uncle Tom's Cabin,'
she always signed herself Harriet Beecher Stowe ; and her sweet voice
trembled with love and music whenever she spoke of the lovely American
lady who had taught her as even Buddha had taught kings to respect
the rights of her fellow-creatures."

I remain

Yours very truly,

A. H. LEON OWENS.

The distinctively religious influence of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" has
been not the least remarkable of the features of its history.

Among other testimonials in the possession of the writer is a
Bible presented by an association of workingmen in England on
the occasion of a lecture delivered to them on " Uncle Tom, as an
Illustration of Christianity."

The Christianity represented in the book was so far essential and
unsectarian, that alike in the Protestant, Catholic, and Greek church,
it has found sympathetic readers.

It has indeed been reported that " Uncle Tom's Cabin " has been
placed in the Index of the Roman Catholic Church, but of this
there may be a doubt, as when the author was in Rome she saw it
in the hands of the common people, and no less in those of some of
the highest officials in the Vatican, and heard from them in conver-
sation expressions of warm sympathy with the purport of the work.

In France it was the testimony of colporteurs that the enthusiasm
for the work awakened a demand for the Bible of Uncle Tom, and
led to a sale of the Scriptures.

The accomplished translator of M. Charpentier's edition said to
the author, that, by the researches necessary to translate correctly
the numerous citations of Scripture in the work, she had been led
to a most intimate knowledge of the sacred writings in French.

The witty scholar and litterateur, Heinrich Heine, speaking of
his return to the Bible and its sources of consolation in the last
years of his life, uses this language : —

"The reawakening of my religious feelings I owe to that holy book
the Bible. Astonishing ! that after I have whirled about all my life
over all the dance-floors of philosophy, and yielded myself to all th«

INTRODUCTION.

orgies of the intellect, and paid my addresses to all possible systems,
without satisfaction, like Messalina after a licentious night, I now find
myself on the same standpoint where poor Uncle Tom stands, — on.
that of the Bible. I kneel down by my black brother in the same
prayer ! What a humiliation ! With all my science I have come
no farther than the poor ignorant negro who has scarce learned to
spell. Poor Tom, indeed, seems to have seen deeper things in the

holy book than I Tom, perhaps, understands them better than

I, because more flogging occurs in them, — that is to say, those ceaseless
blows of the whip which have a;sthetically disgusted me in reading
the Gospels and Acts. But a poor negro slave reads with his back,
and understands better than we do. But I, who used to make cita-
tions from Homer, now begin to quote the Bible as Uncle Tom
does." — Vermischte Schriften, p. 77.

The acute German in these words has touched the vital point in
the catholic religious spirit of the book. " Uncle Tom's Cabin "
shows that under circumstances of utter desolation and despair
the religion of Christ can enable the poorest and most ignorant
human being, not merely to submit, but to triumph, — that the
soul of the lowest and weakest, by its aid, can become strong in
superhuman virtue, and rise above every threat and terror and
danger, in a sublime assurance of an ever-present love and an im-
mortal life.

It is in this point of view that its wide circulation through all the
languages of the earth may justly be a source of devout satisfaction.

Life has sorrows so hopeless, so dreadful, — so many drag through
weary, joyless lives, — that a story which carries such a message as
this can never cease to be a comforter.

The message is from Christ the Consoler, and too blessed is an*
one allowed by Him to carry it to the sorrowful children of men.

BIBLIOGKAPHICAL ACCOUNT

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN

BRITISH MUSEUM, September 14, 1878.

DEAR SIRS, — I well remember the interest which the late Mr.
Thomas Watts took in the story of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," from the
moment that he had read it. Mr. Watts, besides being an accom-
plished philologist, and one of the greatest linguists that ever lived,
never neglected the current literature of his time, including the
novels and romances of his own country and America. Scott and
Dickens, Washington Irving and Fenimore Cooper, charmed him
more than the dull books which great scholars are commonly sup-
posed to be always reading. In Mrs. Beecher Stowe's work he ad-
mired not only the powerful descriptions of life in the Slave States,
the strokes of character, the humor and the pathos ; but above all
he was impressed with the deep earnestness of purpose in the writer,
and used to express it as his opinion that it was a work destined
to prove a most powerful agent in the uprooting of slavery in
America. No one in this country was better acquainted than Mr.
Watts with the politics of the United States, and in the war which
eventually ensued on the subject of slavery, between the Northern
and Southern States, he was always a consistent supporter of the
policy of President Lincoln.

Of the reasons which induced him to prevail upon Mr. (now Sir
Anthony) Panizzi to make a collection for the Library of the British
Museum of the different translations of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," the
extracts given from his letter to Professor Stowe are a sufficient ex-
planation.

At your desire I have the pleasure to forward to you, as a sup-
plement to Mr. Watts's letter, the accompanying list of editions
and translations of" Uncle Tom's Cabin," contained in the Library of

xiV BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

the British Museum, as well as of others which have not yet beer
obtained. Of the latter there is a Servian translation which has
been ordered but not yet received.

When this shall have been added, the various languages into
which " Uncle Tom's Cabin " has been translated will be exactly
twenty in number, — a copy of each being in the British Museum,
These several languages, in alphabetical order, are as follows : viz.
Armenian, Bohemian, Danish, Dutch, Finnish, Flemish (only a
modification of Dutch, but often treated as a distinct language),
French, German, Hungarian or Magyar, Illyrian (by Mr. Watt
called Wendish), Polish, Portuguese, Romaic or Modern Greek,
Russian, Servian, Spanish, Swedish, Wallachian, Welsh.

There may still be translations in other languages, of which sure
intelligence has not yet been obtained.

In some of the languages mentioned, as, for instance, in French
and German, there are several distinct versions. A summary of
these is given at the end of the general Bibliographical List here-
with appended.

I remain, dear sirs,

Yours very truly,

GEORGE BULLEN.
MESSRS. HOUGHTON, OSGOOD, & Co.

The letter of Mr. Watts to which Mr. Bullen refers was addressed
to Professor Stowe about 1860, and is as follows : —

Extract from a Letter from the late THOMAS WATTS, ESQ., Librarian
of the British Museum, to PROFESSOR STOWE.

DEAR SIR, — It is certainly one of the most striking features of the
popularity of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " that it has been translated into so
many languages, and among them into so many obscure ones, languages
which it has been so hard for popularity to penetrate. Even the master-
pieces of Scott and Dickens have never been translated into Welsh, while
this American novel has forced its way, in various shapes, into the lan-
guages of the ancient Britons.

There is a complete and excellent translation by Hugh Williams,
there is an abridged one by W. Williams, and there is a strange incor-
poration of it, almost entire, into the body of a tale by Rev. W. Ree,
called " Aclyryd f Errytha " (" Robert or Uncle Robert's Hearth)."

In the east of Europe it has found as much acceptance as in the west.
The " Edinburgh Review " mentioned some time ago that there was one

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

into Magyar. There are, in fact, three in that language, — one by Tringi,
one by Tarbar, and one (probably an abridged one) for the use of chil
dren. There are two translations into the Illyrian, and two into the Walla
chian. There is one Polish translation, and an adaptation by Miss Arabella
Palmer into Russian. A full translation into Russian appears to have
been forbidden till lately, lest it might get into circulation among the
serfs, among whom it might prove as hazardous to introduce it as the
"Portuguese version published in Paris among the slaves of Brazil.

Of course the book exists also in Danish, Swedish and Dutch (one
Dutch edition being published in the island of Batavia). In the great
literary languages of the Continent the circulation has been immense. In
the " Bibliographic de la France," at least four versions are mentioned
which have run through various editions, and in the Leipsic Catalogue
for 1852 and 1853 the distinct German versions enumerated amounted to
no less than thirteen.

In the Asiatic languages the only version I have yet seen is the
Armenian. Copies of all these versions have been procured or ordered for
the British Museum.

It is customary in all great libraries to make a collection of versions
of the Scriptures in various languages, and dialects, to serve, among other
purposes, for those of philological study. I suggested to Mr. Panizzi,
then at the head of the printed book department, that in this point of
view it would be of considerable interest to collect the versions of " Unclt-
Tom."

The translation of the same text by thirteen different translators at
precisely the same epoch of a language is a circumstance perhaps altogether
unprecedented, and it is one not likely to recur, as the tendency of modern
alterations in the law of copyright is to place restriction son the liberty of
translators. The possession, too, of such a book as "Uncle Tom's Cabin "
is very different from that of such a book r,s " Thomas a Kempis," in the
information it affords to the student of a language. There is every
variety of style, from that of animated narration and passionate wailing
to that of the most familiar dialogue, and dialogue not only in the lan-
guage of the upper classes but of the lowest.

The student who has once mastered " Uncle Tom " in Welsh or Wal-
lachian is not likely to meet any further difficulties in his progress
through Welsh or Wallachian prose. These considerations, united to
those of another character, which had previously led to the collection by
the Museum of translations of the plays of Shakespeare, the Antiquary,
the Pickwick Club, etc., led to the adoption of my views, and many of
these versions have already found their way to the shelves of the Museum,
while others are on the way. When all are assembled the notes and pref-
aces of different translators would furnish ample material for an instruc-
tive article in a review.

Ixvi BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

I regret that my account of these versions should be so much less
extended than I had hoped to make it, hut the duties of an officer in tha
British Museum, especially at this period of the year, render it almost
impossible for him to make any use whatever of the treasures committed
to his charge, which are as a rule as much closed to him as they are open
to the public. You must excuse on this account all my shortcomings,
and believe me, dear sir,

Yours very truly,

THOMAS WATTS.

The following is a list of the various editions and translations of
" Uncle Tom's Cabin," contained in the Library of the British MU-"
seum : —

I. Complete Texts and abridgments, extracts, and adaptations, ver-
sified or dramatized, of the original English.

II. Translations, in alphabetical order, of the languages, nineteen in
number : viz. Armenian, Bohemian, Danish, Dutch, Finnish,
Flemish, French, German, Hungarian or Magyar, Illyrian, Ital-
ian, Polish, Portuguese, Romaic or Modern Greek, Russian,
Spanish, Swedish, Wallachian, Welsh.

In these are also comprised abridgments, extracts, and adap-
tations.

III. Appendix. Containing a list of the various works relating to
" Uncle Tom's Cabin " ; also critical notices of the work,
whether separately published, or contained in reviews, maga-
zines, newspapers, etc.

I. ORIGINAL ENGLISH.

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly . . . One hundred and
tenth thousand. 2 vols.

Boston, U. S. 1852. 12°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly . . . With introductory
.remarks by J. Sherman.

H. G. Bolin. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave; States of America.

T. Bosworth (Aug. 14th). London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. . . . With a Preface by
the Author, written expressly for this edition.

T. Bosworth (Oct. 13th). London. 1852. 8°

STncle Tom's Cabin . . . With, twenty-seven Illustrations on wood by G.
C ruik shaii k, Esq.

J. Cassell. London. 1852. 8°

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Ixvii

tlncle Tom's Cabin. With a new Preface by H. B. Stowe.

Clarke & (Jo. London. [1852.] 8°

The People's Illustrated Edition. Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life
in the Slave States of America. With 50 Engravings.

Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America.
[With a Preface signed U.J

Clarke & Co. Lmidon. 1852. 12°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America.
Third edition. [With a Preface by G.]

Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. (Th«
seventh thousand of tins edition.)

C. H. Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America . . .
reprinted . . . from the tenth American edition.

Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin, " the Story of the Age."

J. Gilbert. London. 1852. 18°

Uncle Tom's Cabin : a Tale of Life among the Lowly ; or, Pictures of
Slavery in the United States of America. Third edition. Embel-
lished with eight spirited Engravings.

Ingram, Cooke & Co. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, the History of a Christian Slave. With an In-
troduction by E. Burritt. With 16 Illustrations, etc.

Partridge & Oakey. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, the History of a Christian Slave . . . With
[an Introduction and] twelve Illustrations on Wood, designed by
Anelay.

Partridge & Oakey. Lmidon. 1852. 8°

Another edition. Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, the History of a Christian
Slave. With an Introduction [and Illustrations by H. Anelay].

Partridge and Oakey (Sept. 18th). London. [1852.]' 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. With
eight Engravings. [With a Preface signed G.]

Routledge & Co. London. 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America
Third edition. With forty Illustrations.

Routledge <fc Co. & Clarke & Co. London, 1852. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. With introductory re-
marks by J. Sherman.

J. Snow. London. 1852. 8°

Second edition. Complete for seven pence. Uncle Tom's Cabin . . .
Reprinted verbatim irom the American edition. Fiftieth thousand,

G. V ulcers. London. [1852.], 4° ,

Ixviii BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

Uncle Tom's Cabin. Tauchnilz, Leipzig. 1852. 16°. Being part ol
the Collection of " British Authors." Vol. 243, 44.

Cassell's edition of Uncle Tom's Cabin [by H. E. B. S.].

London. 1852. 12°

Uncle Tom's Cabin. London. 1852. 8°. Forming Vol. 84 cf the
" Parlour Library."

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. Lan~
don. 1852. 8°. Being No. 121 of the "Standard Novels."

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. New illustrated edition.
Adam & Charles Black. Edinburgh. 1853. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin : or, Negro Life in Slave States of America.

Clarke, Bcdon d; Co. London. [1853.] 16°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly . . . With above one hun-
dred and fifty Illustrations.

N. Cookc. London. 1853. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. Illustrated edition.
Designs by Billings, etc.

S. Low, Son <fc Co. London. 1853. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Slave Life in America. [With a Biographical
Sketch of Mrs. H. E. B. Stowe.]

T. Nelson & Sons. London, Edinburgh, printed 1853. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin : a Tale of Life among the Lowly. With a Preface
by the . . . Earl of Carlisle.

G. Routledgc <L- Co. London. 1853. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin. Adapted for young persons by Mrs. Crowe. With
8 Illustrations.

G. Routledgc & Co. London. 1853. 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin : a Tale of Slave Life, etc.

London. 1853. 8°
forming part of the " Universal Library." Fiction, Vol. I.

Uncle Tom's Cabin . . . Standard illustrated edition.

London, Ipswich [printed 1857]. 12°
One of a series called the " Run and Bead Library."

Uncle Tom's Cabin . . . With a Preface by ... the Earl of Carlisle. A
new edition.

Routlcdgc and Sons. London. [1864.] 8°

Uncle Tom's Cabin . . . Standard illustrated edition. London. 187ft
8°. Forming part of the " Lily Series."

A.11 about little Eva, from Uncle Tom's Cabin.

London. 1853. 12°

All about little Topsy, from Uncle Tom's Cabin.

London 1853. 12°

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Ixix

A Peep into Uncle Tom's Cabin. By "Aunt Mary" [i. e. Miss Low].
With an Address from Mrs. H. B. Stowe to the Children of England
and America.

S. Low and Son. London. (Jewett & Co., Boston, U. S.)
A selection of passages from Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Pictures and Stories from Uncle Tom's Cabin (designed to adapt Mrs.
Stowe's narrative to the understanding of the youngest readers).

Edinburgh. 1853. 4°

The Juvenile Uncle Tom's Cabin. Arranged for young readers. By
Mrs. Crowe.

Routledge & Co. London. 1853. 12°
An abridgment. With four Illustrations.

Uncle Tom's Cabin for Children. By Mrs. Crowe.

Routlcdyc <fc Sons. London. 1868. 12°
This is another edition of the preceding abridgment. With two Illustrations.

Uncle Tom's Cabin. A drama of real life. In three Acts [and in prose].
Adapted from Mrs. Beecher Stowe's celebrated Novel.

London. 1854. 12°
Contained in Vol. XII. of " Lacy's acting edition of Plays."

Uncle Tom's Cabin. A drama in six Acts, by G. L. Aiken.

New York. 1868. 12°
Contained in " French's Standard Drama."

II TRANSLATIONS.

[Brother Thomas' Cabin. A story by H. B. Stowe, an American Lady.]

Armenian. 2 Vols. (Venice.) 1854. 12°

Stryc Toma's, aneb Obrazy ze zivota cernych otroku v Americe, z an-
glickeho pane H. B. S. [much abridged].

Bohemian. V. Brone. 1854. 8°

Onkel Tomas, eller Negerlivet i Amerikas Slaverstater . . . Oversat fra
den nordamerikanske original af Capt. Schadtler.

Danish. Kiobenhavn. 1853. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hytte, eller Negerliv i de amerikanske Slavestater . . .
Oversat of P. V. Grove.

Danish. Kiobenhavn. 1856. 8°

De Negerhut. [Uncle Tom's Cabin] . . . Naar den 20en Amerikaanschen
druk, uit het Engelsch vertaald door C. M. Mensing.

Dutch. 2 Deel. Haarlem. 1853. 8°

Beta Tumon Tupa, lyhykaisesti kerottu ja kanniilla kuvanksilla valaistu.
[Abridged translation into Finnish of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " by Mrs,
H. E. Beecher Stowe.] Finnish.

Turussa [Abo.]. 1856. obi. 4°

Ixx BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

De Hut van Onkel Tom, cene Slnven-Geschiedenis. Naer het Engelscb.

Flemish. 3 Deel. Gent. [1852.] S°

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom, ou les noirs en Amerique. Traduction neuve,
corrigee et accompagnee de notes par L. de Wailly et E. Texier.
Troisieme edition.

French. Paris. [1852.] 8°

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom . . . traduction complete par A. Michiels,
avec une biographic de 1'auteur.

French. Paris. 1852. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom, ou Sort des Negres Esclaves. Traduction nou-
velle par M. L. Casion, precedee d'une etude sur 1'ouvrage [by H.
CasionJ.

French. 2 torn. Paris, Cambrai [printed], 1853. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom • cu Tableaux de 1'Esclavage dans les Etats-Unia
d'Amerique . . . Traduction nouvelle par Old Nick [pseud, i. e.
P. E. Dauran Forgues] et A. Joanne.

French. Paris. 1853. 8°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom . . . Traduction faite a la demunde de 1'Auteur
par Madame L. S. Belloc, avec une preface de Madame B. Stowe,
ecrite par elle pour cette traduction, precedee d'une notice sur sa vie
par Madame L. S. Belloc, et ornee de sou portrait grave par M. F.
Girard.

French. Paris. 1853. 12°

Mme. H. B. S. La Case de 1'Oncle Tom, traduite et accompagnee de no^es

Sar M. L. Pilatte. Nouvelle edition, revue et corrigee, augmentee
'une preface de 1'Auteur ecrite specialement pour cette edition, et
d'une introduction par George Sand. Traduction autorisee . . . par
Mme. B. Stowe.

French. Paris. 1853. 12°

Le Pere Tom, ou vie des negres en Amerique. Traduction de la Bedol-
liere.

French. Paris, 1853. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom, ou vie des negres en Amerique . . . Traduction
de L. Enault.

French. Paris. 1853. 8°
One of a series called " Bibliotheque des Chemins de Fer."

La Case du Pere Tom. Traduction de la Bedolliere. Nouvelle edition,
augmentee d'une notice de G. Sand. Illustrations, etc.

French. Paris. [1859 ?] 4°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Drame en huit actes. Par MM. Dumanoir et
D'Ennery. Kepresente pour la premiere fois, a Paris, sur le Theatra
de l'Ambigue-Comique le 10 Janvier, 1853.

Paris. 1859. 4°
Contained in the '' The'ltre Contemporain IllustreV' 80e Se>ie.

l/Oncle Tom. Drame en cinq actes et neuf tableaux. Par M. E. Texier

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Ixxi

et L. de Wailly. Represente pour la premiere fois a Paris, sur le
Theatre de la Gaite le 23 Janvier 1853.

Paris. 1853. 8°
Contained in the Bibliotheque Dramatique of Michel Le>y. Tome 49.

Another Edition. Paris. 1859. 4°
Contained in the " Theatre Contemporain."

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Eiue Negergeschichte. 3 Bdchen. German.

Berlin, Dessau [printed], 1852. 8°
Forms Bdch. 4-6 Jahrg. 5 of the " Alljjemeine Deutsche Volks-Bibliothek."

Oheim Tom's Hiitte, oder das Leben bei den Niedrigen . . . Uebersetzt
von H. R. Hutten.

German. Boston, U. S. Cambridge, U. S. [printed], 1853. 8°

Qnkel Tom, oder Schilderungen aus dem Leben in den Sklavenstaaten
Nordamerika's . . . Nach den 35steu englischen Auflage von J. S.
Lowe. German, 2 Bdc.

Hamburg, Leipzig [printed], 1853. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Ein Roman aus dem Leben der Sklaven in Amerika.
(Mit sechs sauberen Holzschuitten geziert. ) German. 2 Bdc.

Albert Sasco. Berlin. [1853.] 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte oder das Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten des freien
Nordamerika ... In deutscher Auffassungsweise fiir deutsche Lescr
bearbeitet von Dr. Ungewitter. Dritte Ausgabe, mit 6 Illustration en.
German.

Wien [printed] und Leipzig. 1853. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten von Amerika
. . . Mit der Biographic der Verfasserin, und einer Vorrede von E.
Burritt. Vollstandige und wohlfeilste Stereotyp- Ausgabe. Neunte
Auflage. Nebst Portrait.

German. Leipzig. 1853. 8°
This forms Bd. I of the " Neue Volks-Bibliothek, herausgegeben von A. Schrader."

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Aus dem Englischen. Mit 6 Holzschnitten.

German. Berlin. 1853. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten Amerika's.
Aus dem Englischen. Mit funfzig Illustrationen. Vierte Auflage.

German. Leipzig. 1854. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, nach dem Englischen fur die reifere Jugend bear.
beitet von M. Cans. Mit einer Abbildung in Farbendruick.

German. Pest.h. 1853. 8°
Forming Bd. 1 of the " Neues Lesekabinet fur die reifere Jugend."

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Leiden der Negersklaven in Amerika. [By
Mrs. H. E. B. Stowe.] 1m Auszuge fur das Volk bearbeitet. Mit
einem Titelbilde.

German. Berlin. 1853. 16°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Erzahlung fiir Kinder bearbeitet. [From Mrs.
(Stowe's tale.] Neues Bilder . . . und Lesebuch, etc.

Nurnberg. [1854?] obi. 4°

BIBLIOGKAPHICAL ACCOUNT

Onkel Tom's Hutte, fur Kinder. Nach dem Englischen ['of Mrs. Stowel
von A. Hartel.

German. Leipzig. [1854 ?] 16°

Tamas Batya Kunyhoja ; vagy, Neger elet a rabszolga — tarto Amerikai
allamokban. B. S. H. utan Angolbol, Irinyi

J. Hungarian 4 Kotet. Pesten. 1853. 12°

Tamas Batya. Gyermekek szamara. Kidolgozta M . . . Rokus. [Brother
Thomas. For Children. Elaborated by Rokus M . . .]

Hungarian. Pesten. 1856. 8°

Tamas Batya, vagy egy Szerecsen rabszolga tbrtenete. H. B. Stowe utan
irta Tatar Peter. [Brother Thomas, or story of a Negro Slave. Writ-
ten by P. Tatar after H. B. Stowe. A versified abridgment.]

Hungarian. Pest. 1857. 8°

Stric Tomaz ali zivlenje zamorcov v Ameriki . . . Svobodno za Slovence
zdelal J. B.

Illyrian. VCelovcn. 1853. 8°

Stric Tomova Koca, ali zivljenje zamozcov v robnih derzavah svobodne
severne Amerike . . . Iz memskega poslovenil [and abridwd] F.
Malavasic. S sterimi podobsinami.

Illyrian. V. Ljubljani. 1853. 8°

la Capanna dello Zio Tommaso ; ossia la vita dei Negri in America. Di
Enrichetta Beeclier Stowe.

Italian. Lugano. 1853. 8C

Chata Wuja Tomasza, czyli zycie niewolnikow . Przettumaczvt.

F. Dydacki.

Polish. 2 torn. Lwow. 1853. 8°

Chatka Ojca Toma, czyli zycie murzynow w stanach niewolniczych
Ameryki Polnocny : romans . . . 'Przeklad Waclawa P. Tom. 1.
(Przeklad I. Iwickiego. Tom. 2.)

Polish. 2 Tom. Warszawa. 1865. 8°

A Cabana do Pai Thomaz, ou a vida dos pretos na America, Romance
moral escripta em Inglez por Mrs. H. B. S. e traduzido em Portuguez
por F. L. Alvares d'Andrada, etc. (Jnizo da obra por Mine. George
Sand [pseud, i. e. Amantine Lucile Aurore Dudevant. With plates]!)

Portuguese. 2 Tom. Paris. 1853. 12°

H icaXvpT] TOV QW/J.O., T) 6 /3ios TOJV Mai/pwi' (t> 'A/aepj/fa. Mi/^taropta 'Ep/)t«
erras STO/ST/S, fj.era<f>paffdfiffa €K rou 'Ayy\iKov viro I. Kapaffovrcra.
Romaic m Modern Greek. 2 Vols. AQrjvqvi [Athens]. 1860. 8°

Khizhina dyadi Toma : roman.

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1858. 8°

Khizhina dyadi Toma : povyest, etc.

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1865. 8°

La Cabana del Tio Tomas. Novela escrita en Ingles.

Spanish. 2 torn. Mexico. 1853. 12°

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Ixxiii

La Cabana dei tio Tom, novela . . . traducida al Castellano por A. A.
Orihuela.

Spanish. Bogota. 1853. 8e

La Cabana del tio Tomas, i los Negros en Americk. Traducida por los
Redactores del Clamor Publico, y ilustrada con cinco laminas finas
grabadas en acero.

Spanish. Barcelona. 1853. 8°

La Choza del Negro Tomas, o vida de los Negros en el Sur de los Estados-
Unidos. Novela escrita en Ingles . . . traducida al Castellano.

Spanish. 2 torn. Madrid. 1853. 8°

La Choza de Tomas Novela . . . traducida al Castellano. Edicion ilus-
trada con 26 gi-abados aparte del testo.

Spanish. Madrid, Paris. 1853. 4°

La Cboza de Tom . . . traducida por W. Aygualsde Izco. Segunda
edicion.

Spanish. Madrid. 1853. 4°

Onkel Tom's Stuga. Bearbetad for Barn. [An abridgment for chil-
dren.]

Swedish. Stockholm. 1868. 16°
Koliba lui Moshu Toma, etc.

IVallachian. 2 Tom. Jassy. 1853. 8° /

Bordeiulu Unkiului Tom, etc.

Wallachian. 2 torn. Jassy. 1853. 8°

Crynodeb o Gaban 'Newyrth Tom ; nan Frywyd Negroaidd yn America
. . . Cyfiethiedig gau y Lefiad [with a prefatory notice by W. Wil*
Hams].

Welsh. Abertawy. [1853.] 12°

Caban f'Ewyeth Twm . . . gyda . . . gerfluniau gan G. Cruikshank.
Cyheithad H. Williams.

Welsh. Llundain, 1853. 12°

Caban f'Eurythr Tomu, nen hanes caethwas Cristnogol . . . Crynodeb
o waith H. B.

Welsh. Caernarfon. [I860?] 12°

III. APPENDIX.

The Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin ; presenting the original facts and docu-
ments upon which the story is founded. Together with corroborative
Statements, verifying the truth of the Work. By Mrs. Harriet
Beecher Stowe.
Clarke, Bceton & Co. ; and Thomas Bosworth. London. [1853.] 8°

A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Tauchnitz, Leipzig. 1853. 16°

Forming Vols. 266-67 of the " Collection of British Authors."

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Second Edition.

Sampson Low, Son <k Co. London. 1853. 8°

La Clef de la Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Avec les pieces justificatives. Ou«
vrage traduit par Old Nick [pseud, i. e. Paul Emile Dauran Forgues]
& A. Joanne.

Paris. 1853. 8°
La Clef de la Case de 1'Oncle Tom.

Paris. 1857.
This is another copy of the preceding, with a new title-page and a different date.

Schliissel zu Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Enthaltend die urspriinglichen
Thatsachen und Documente, die dieser Geschichte zu Grunde liegen.
Zweite Auflage.

Leipzig. 1853. 8°

Forming End. 5 and 7 of the " Neue Volks-Bibliothek, herausgegeben von At
Schroder."

La Llave de la Cabana del Tio Tom. Traducida de la ultima edicion por
G. A. LaiTosa.

Madrid, Barcelona [printed], 1855. 8°

REVIEWS AND NOTICES OF " UNCLE TOM'S CABIN," SEPARATELY PUB-
LISHED ; ALPABETICALLY ARRANGED UNDER THE AUTHORS* NAMES.

Adams (F. Colburn). Uncle Tom at Home. A review of the reviewers
and repudiators of Uncle Tom's Cabin, by Mrs. Stowe.

Philadelphia. 1853. 12°

Another Edition. London. [1853]. 12°

Brimblecomb (Nicholas) pseud. ? Uncle Tom's Cabin in ruins. Trium-
phant defence of Slavery : in a series of Letters to H. B. Stowe.

Boston, U. S. 1853. 8°

Clare (Edward). The Spirit and Philosophy of Uncle Tom's Cabin.

London, 1853. 12°

Criswell (R.). Uncle Tom's Cabin contrasted with " Buckingham Hall,
the Planter's Home" ; or, a fair view of both sides of the Slavery
Question.

New York. 1853. 12°

Denman (Thomas) Baron Denman. "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "Bleak
House," Slavery and Slave Trade. Seven articles by Lord Denman,
reprinted from the "Standard." With an article containing facts
connected with Slavery, by Sir G. Stephen, reprinted from the
" Northampton Mercury."

London, 1853. 12°

Second Edition. London, 1853. 12°

Helps (Sir Arthur). A letter on Uncle Tom's Cabin. By the author of
" Friends in Council."

Cambridge, U. S. 1852. 8°

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

Henson (Josiah). " Uncle Tom's Story of his Life." An Autobiography
of J. Henson, from 1789 to 1876. With a Preface by Mrs. H. B.
Stowe, and an introductory note by G. Sturge and S. Morley. Edited
by J. Lobb. [With a Portrait.] Fortieth thousand.

London, 1877. 8°

Senior (Nassau William). American Slavery : a reprint of an article on

• "Uncle Tom's Cabin," of which a portion was inserted in the 206th

number of the Edinburgh Review ; and of Mr. Sumner's Speech of

the 19th and 20th of May, 1856. With a notice of the events which

followed.

London, 1856. 8°
Published without the author's name.

Another Edition. London. [1862.] 8°

Published with the author's name.

Thompson (George). American Slavery. A lecture delivered in the Music
Hall, Store St., Deer. 13th, 1852. Proving by unquestionable evi-
dence the correctness of Mrs. Stowe's portraiture of American Slavery,
in her popular work, " Uncle Tom's Cabin."

London. 1853. 12°

REVIEWS AND NOTICES OF "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN," WHICH HAVE
APPEARED IN VARIOUS PERIODICALS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM ;
ALPHABETICALLY ARRANGED.

Note. — Those in the Welsh language are printed together at the end.

The "Athenaeum." London. 1852, p. 574. Notice.
1852, p. 1173. Contrast between "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and the

works by Hildreth and W. L. G. Smith.
1859, p. 549. Contrasts the literary merits of " Uncle Tom's Cabin"

and " The Minister's Wooing."
1863, p. 78. Notice of the Influence of " Uncle Tom's Cabin."

The "Baptist Magazine." London. 1852. Vol. 44, p. 206. Notice.

The "Baptist Reporter." London. 1852. N. S. Vol. IX. p. 206. No-
tice.

" Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine." Edinburgh. 1853. Vol. 74, p.
393. Review of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " and " Key."

•'The Christian Reformer." London. 1852. 3d Series, Vol. 8, p. 472.
Review.

The "Christian Witness." London. 1852. 8°. Vol. 9, p. 344. Review.
"The Critic." London. 1852. fol. p. 293. Notice.

"Dublin University Magazine." Dublin. Vol. 40, Novr., 1852. 8°.
Review.

l"¥h* Eclectic Review." London. 1852. 8° N. S. Vol. IV. Notice.
Do. Vol. VII. 1854. Notice.

Ixxvi BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

"The Edinburgh Review." London. 1855. No. 206. The articls
"American Slavery," written by N. W. Senior, and twice reprinted
by the author with additions.

"Frasers Magazine. London. 1852. 8°. Vol.46. A critique by A. H.

"The Free Church Magazine." Edinburgh. 1852. 8°. N. S. Vol. 1.
p. 359. Notice.

" The General Baptist Repository" London. 1852. 8°. Vol. 31, p. 339.
Notice.

"The Inquirer." London. 1852. fol. Vol. II. p. 644. Review.
11 The Literary Gazette." London. 1852. fol. Notice.

" The Local Preacher's Magazine." London. 1853. 8°. N. S. Vol. 1.
Notice.

" The Methodist New Connexion Magazine." London. 1852. 8°. 3d Se-
ries, Vol. 20. Review.

"The Mother's Magazine." London. 1852. Review.

"The North British Review" Edinburgh. 1853. 8°. Vol.18. Re-
view.

" The Quarterly Review." London. 1857. Vol.101. Review of "Dred"
and " Uncle Tom's Cabin."

" SJiarpe's London Magazine," conducted by Mrs. S. C. Hall. London,

1852, 1853. 8°. N. S. Vol. 1. Review.

N. S. Vol. 2. Notice, with Miss Bremer's opinion of " Uncle Tom's
Cabin."

"The Spectator." London. 1852. 8° Notice..

" Tail's Edinburgh Magazine." Edinburgh. 1852. 8°. 2d Series.
Notice.

" The Westminster Review." London. 1853. 8°. N. S. Vol. 4. Re-
view.

WELSH REVIEWS AND NOTICES.

«• Y Cylchgrawn " [The Circulator]. Abertawy. 1853. 8°. Vol.3. Re-
view of Welsh translation.

»YDiwygiwr" [The Reformer]. Llandli. 1852. 8°. Vols. 17 & 18.
Notices of Welsh translations.

" YDysgedydd" [The Instructor]. Dolgellan. 1853. 8°. Notices of
Welsh translations.

" Yr Eurgrnwn Wcsleyaidd" [The "Wesleyan Golden Treasury]. Llan-
idloes. 1853. 8°. Vol. 2. Review of Welsh translations.

M Y Oreal " [The Miscellany]. Llangoller*. 1853. 8°. VoL 2. Review.

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Ixxvii

•• Tr Haul " [The Sun]. Llanymddyfri. 18° . Vol. 4. Extracts and
Reviews.

•« Y Traethodydd " [The Essayist]. Dinbych. 1853. 8°. Vol. 9. No-
tice.

REVIEWS AND NOTICES IN UNITED STATES PERIODICALS.

"The Literary World." New York. 1852. fol. Vol.10. Review.

" Littell's Living Age." Boston. 1852. 8°. Reviews from American
and English Periodicals.

" The New Englander." New Haven. 1852. 8°. Vol.10. Review.

"The New York Quarterly Review." New York. 1853. Vol.1. Re-
view.

"The North American Review." Boston. 1853. 8°. Vol. 77. Review.
"The United States Review." New York. 1853. 8° Vol.1.

A Critique in " Blackwood's Magazine." Article, " Slavery and Slave Power in tha
United States." The writer speaks of " Uncle Tom's Cabin" as "A romance with*
out the slightest pretension to truth, and the foundation of a wholesale attack oo
the institutions and character of the people of the United States."

REVIEWS AND NOTICES IN FOREIGN PERIODICALS.

" Boekzaal der Geleerde Were Id. Dutch. Amsterdam. 1853. 12°. Re-
view, by "J. J. V. T."

"De Tijd." Dutch. ' SGravenhage, 1853. 8°. Deel 17. Notice, with
portrait of Mrs. Stowe.

" Vadcrlandsclie Letteroefcningen." Dutch. Amsterdam. 1853. 8°.
Review.

" DcEcndragt." Flemish. Gent. 1853. Jaerzang 7. Review, by " R."

"fievuc Crif.lr/ne dcs Livres Nouveaux." French. Paris. 1852. 8°. Re-
view, by " H. A. P."

"Revue Conlcmporaine." French. Paris. 1852. 8°. Tome 4. Article,
' ' Les Negres en Amerique," by Philarete Chasles.

"Revue dcs Deux Mondcs." French. Paris. 1852. 8°. 6th series.
Tome 16. Article, " Le Roman Abolitioniste en Amerique," by
Emile Montegnt.

" Ulatter fur literarische Untcrhaltun." German. Leipzig. 1853. 4*.
Band 1. Review, by Rudolf Gottschall.

" Europa." German. Leipzig. 1853. fol. Review and Notices.
11 Das Pfennig-Magazin." German. Leipzig. 1852- fol. Notices.

" Unterhaltungen am hduslichen Herd. " German. Leipzig. 1853. 8°.
Review.

"IlCimento," Italian. Torino. 1862. 6°. Review.

Ixxviif BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

THE following translations, abridgments, or adaptations in various
languages have also been published in different editions, but are
not contained in the Library of the British Museum.

De Hut van Oom Tom, of het Leven der Negerslaven in Noord-Amerika,
Naar het Fransch van de la Bedolliere, door W. L. Ritter.

Dutch. Batavia. 1853. 8°
A copy of this version is in the possession of Professor Stowe.

De Neger hut, of het Leven der Negerslaven in Amerika. Uit Engelsch
vertaald door P. Munnich. Eerste Deel.

Dutch. Soerabaya [at the East End of Java]. 1853. 8°
A copy of this version is also in the possession of Professor Stowe.

Strejcek Tom, cili : Otrootvi ve svobodne Americe. Povidka pro mlady
a dospely vek, vzdelana die anglickeho romance od pani Harriet
Beecher Stowe.

Bohemian. vPraze. 1853. 12°

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction revue par L. de Wailly et E.
Texier.

French. Paris. 1852. 8°.

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction complete par A. Michiels. 2«
Edition.

French. Paris. 1852. 12°.

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par L. Pilatte.

French. 2 torn. Paris. 1852. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de Labedolliere. Illustrations
Anglaises.

French. Paris. 1852. 4°

Another Edition. Paris. 1852. large 8°

t)^

Another Edition. Paris. 1852. sra. 8'

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par A. Michiels. 3e Edition.

French. Paris. 1853. 12°
4e Edition. Paris. 1853. 12°

La Cabaue de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de MM. Wailly et Texier.

French. Paris. 1853. 4°
2e Edition. Paris. 1853. 12°

La Case du Pere Tom. Traduction de La Bedolliere. Nouvelle edition,
augmentee d'une notice de G. Sand.

French. Paris. 1853. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par L. Enault.

French. Paris. 1853. foL

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par MM. C. Rowey et A. Rolet.

French. Paris. 1853. 12°
Another Edition. Paris. 1853. 8°

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. IxxiX

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par Texier et Wailly.

French. Paris. 1853. 4°
Contained in the " Mus^e Litte'raire du Siecle."

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de L. Enault.

French. Paris. 1853. 16*
Contained in the " Bibliotheque des Chemins de Fer."

Another Edition. Paris. 1853. 12°
Contained in the " Bibliothfeque des meilleurs romans e'trangeres."

La. Case de 1'Oncle Torn. Traduite par Victor Ratier. Edition revue
par 1'Abbe Jouhanneaud.

French. Limoges <k Paris. 1853. 8°
" Edition modifiee 4 1'usage de la Jeunesse."

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Racontee aux enfants, par Mme' Arabella Pal-
mer. Traduite de 1' anglais, par A. Viollet. [With Illustrations.]

French. Paris. 1853. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de La Bedolliere.

French. Paris. 1854. 4°
Contained in the " Panthe'on Populaire."

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de V. Ratier. Revue par 1'Abbe
Jouhanneaud.

French. Limoges & Paris. 1857. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par La Barre.

French. 3 Vols. Paris. 1861. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par M. L. S. Belloc. Avec une
preface de Mme Beecher Stowe. Oruee de son Portrait.

French. Paris. 1862. 12°
Contained in the " Bibliotheque Charpentier."

Reprinted. Paris. 1872. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par M. L. Pilatte. Nouvelle edition,
augmentee d'une preface de 1'auteur et d'une introduction par G. Sand.

French. Paris. 1862. 12°

La Case du Pere Tom. Traduction de La Bedolliere. Notice de G.
Sand. Illustrations Anglaises.

French. Paris. 1863. 4°
Contained in the " Pantheon Populaire."

Reprinted. Paris. 1874. 4°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par L. Enault.

French. Paris. 1864. 12*
Contained in the " Bibliotheque des meilleurs romaus Strangers. "

Reprinted. Paris. 1865. 12°

Do. Paris. 1873. 12°

Do. Paris. 1875. 12°

Do. Paris. 1876. 12°

Ixxx BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de L. Barre.

French. Paris. 1865. 11°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction revue par E. au Chatenet.

French. Limoges. 1876. 8°

Abrege de 1'histoire de 1'Oncle Tom, a 1'usage de la jeunesse.

French. Leipzig. 1857. 16°
Forming Vol. 24 of the " Petite Bibliotheque FrancjaUe."

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Drame en huit Actes : par MM. Dumanoir et
d'Ennery. Musique de M. Artus. Theatre de I'Anibigu Comique.

Paris. 1853. 12°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Romance tiree du roman de ce noin, jouee a
1'Ambigu, paroles de E. Lecart.

Paris. 1853. 4°

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Chanson nouvelle, d'apres le drame de ce nom.
[By "L. C."]

Paris. 1853. 4°

Onkel Torn, oder Sklavenleben in der Republik Amerika.

German. Berlin. 1852. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten Amerikas.
Aus dem Englischen. 2 Thle.

German. Berlin. 1852. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten Amerikas.
Aus dem Englischen.

German. 30 Lieferungen. Leipzig. 1852. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Uebersetzt von F. C. Nordestern.

German. 6 Hefte. Wien. 1852. 8°

Onkel Tom, oder Negerleben in den nordamerikanischen Sklavenstaaten.
Uebersetzt von W. E. Dragulin.

German. 4 Bde. Leipzig. 1852. 8°
Forming Bd. 9-12 of the " Amerikanische Bibliothek."

Oukel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sclavenstaaten des freien
Nordamerika. Frei bearbeitet von Ungewitter.

German. Leipzig. 1852. 8°
Forming Bd. 317 of the " Belletristisches Lese-Cabinet."

Bclaverei in dem Lande der Freiheit, oder das Leben der Neger in den
Sclavenstaaten Nordamerika' s. Nach der 15 Auflage von Onkel
Tom's Cabin.

German. 4 Bde. Leipzig. 1852. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder die Geschichte eines christlichen Sclaven von
H. B. Stowe.

German. 11 Bdchen. 1852-53. 4°
Forming Bdchen 1871-1881 of "Das Belletristische Ausland."

OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Ixxxi

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Sklavenleben in den Freistaaten Amerika'a.
Aus dem Englischen. Zweite Auflage.

German. 3 Thle. Berlin. 1853. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder die Geschichte eines christlichen Sklaven. Aus
dem englischen iibertragen von L. Du Bois.

German. 3 Thle. Stuttgart. 1853. 16°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten von Amerika.
Aus dem Englischen .

German. Leipzig. 1853. 8°
Forming Bd. 1 of the " Neue Volks-Bibliothek."

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten von Nord-
amerika. Mit 50 Illustrationen. Zweite Auflage.

German. Leipzig. 1853. 8°

Dritte, mit Anmerkungen vermehrte Auflage.

Leipzig. 1853. 8°
Vierte Auflage. Leipzig. 1854. 8°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Sclaverei im Lande der Freiheit. German.
Dritte Auflage. German. 4 Bde.

Leipzig. 1853. 16°

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in Nordamerika. Im Auszuge be-
arbeitet.

German. Berlin. 1853. 16°

Onkel Tom's Schicksale. Erzahlung fiir die Jugend, von Max Schasler.

German. 2 Bdchen. Berlin, 1853. 8°

Onkel Tom's Schicksale. Erzahlungen fur die Jugend. Fiir die deutscha
Jugend bearbeitet von Max Schasler.

German. 2 Bdchen. Berlin. 1853. 8°
Forming Bdchen 1 of the " Hausbibliothek der Jugend."

La Capanna di Papa Tom. Libera Versione dal Franchese, etc.

Napoli. 1853. 8°
A copy of this version is in the possession of Professor Stowe.

Khizhina dyadi Toma, etc.

Russian. Moscow. 1858. 8°
Khizhina dyadi Tom, etc.

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1858. 8°

Dyadya Tom, etc. [Uncle Tom ; or, Life of the Negro-Slaves in America.
A tale adapted from the English by M. F. Butovich. Abridged.]

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1867. 8°

Chicha-Tomina Koliba.

Servian. Belgrade. 1854. 8°

Fyckeln till Onkel Toms Stuga. [Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin.] Werk-
liga Tilldragelser pa hwilka Romanen af samma mamn hwilar. Uldrag
«fter Mrs. H. Beecher Stowe. Ofwersatt efter Engelska Originalet.

Swedish. Stockholm. 1853. 16°

Ixxxii BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

SUMMARY.

FROM the foregoing it will be seen that in the Library of the
British Museum there are 35 editions of the original English, the
complete text, and 8 of abridgments or adaptations.

Of translations in different languages there are 19 : viz. Arme-
nian, 1 ; Bohemian, 1 ; Danish, 2 distinct versions ; Dutch, 1 ;
Finnish, 1 ; Flemish, 1 ; French, 8 distinct versions and 2 dramas ;
German, 5 distinct versions and 4 abridgments ; Hungarian, 1
complete version, 1 for children, and 1 versified abridgment ; II-
lyrian, 2 distinct versions ; Italian, 1 ; Polish, 2 distinct versions ;
Portuguese, 1 ; Romaic or Modern Greek, 1 ; Russian, 2 distinct ver-
sions ; Spanish, 6 distinct versions ; Swedish, 1 ; Wallachian, 2
distinct versions ; Welsh, 3 distinct versions.

Of the " Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin," there are 3 editions in Eng-
lish, 2 in French, 1 in German, and 1 in Spanish.

Of works on the subject of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," separately pub-
lished, there are 9.

Of Reviews and Notices of it in Periodicals there are 49 : viz. 31
for the United Kingdom, of which 7 are Welsh ; 6 for the United
States ; and 12 for other countries.

This list is, however, by no means complete.

Of Translations, etc., not in the British Museum there are, Bohe-
mian 1, a distinct version from that mentioned above ; Dutch, 2 ;
French, 5 distinct versions, 1 drama, and a chanson ; German, 4
distinct versions ; Italian, 1 ; Russian, 3 distinct versions and 1
abridgment ; Servian, 1 ; and Swedish, a translation of the " Key."

[In addition to the Swedish translation mentioned by Mr. Bullen,
the following editions appear to have been produced : —

Onkel Tom's Stuga, eller negerlifvet i Amerikanska slafstaterna
Ofversattning af S. J. Callerholm. Goteborg. 1873. 8°.

Onkel Tom's Stuga. Stockholm. 1882. 8°.

Three editions were also published between 1860 and 1865 by
Mb, Bonnier, Stockholm.]

PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION.

scenes of this story, as its title i
cates, lie among a race hitherto ignored
by the associations of polite and re-
fined society ; an exotic race, whose
ancestors, born beneath a tropic sun,
brought with them, and perpetuated
to their descendants, a character so
essentially unlike the hard and dominant An-
glo-Saxon race, as for many years to have
won from it only misunderstanding and con-
tempt.

But, another and better day is dawning ; every
influence of literature, of poetry and of art, in our
times, is becoming more and more in unison with the
great master chord of Christianity, " good-will to man."

The poet, the painter, and the artist now seek out and
embellish the common and gentler humanities of life, and,
under the allurements of fiction, breathe a humanizing
and subduing influence, favorable to the development of
the great principles of Christian brotherhood.

The hand of benevolence is everywhere stretched out.
searching into abuses, righting wrongs, alleviating dis
tresses, and bringing to the knowledge and sympathies of
the world the lowly, the oppressed, and the forgotten.

PREFACE.

In this general movement, unhappy Africa at last ia
remembered ; Africa, who began the race of civilization
and human progress in the dim, gray dawn of early time,
but who, for centuries, has lain bound and bleeding at the
foot of civilized and Christianized humanity, imploring
compassion in vain.

But the heart of the dominant race, who have been her
conquerors, her hard masters, has at length been turned
towards her in mercy; and it has been seen how far
nobler it is in nations to protect the feeble than to op-
press them. Thanks be to God, the world has at last out-
lived the slave-trade !

The object of these sketches is to awaken sympathy
and feeling for the African race, as they exist among us ;
to show their wrongs and sorrows, under a system so
necessarily cruel and unjust as to defeat and do away the
good effects of all that can be attempted for them, by
their best friends, under it.

In doing this, the author can sincerely disclaim any
invidious feeling towards those individuals who, often
without any fault of their own, are involved in the trials
and embarrassments of the legal relations of slavery.

Experience has shown her that some of the noblest of
minds and hearts are often thus involved ; and no one
knows better than they do, that what may be gathered of
the evils of slavery from sketches like these, is not the
half that could be told, of the unspeakable whole.

In the Northern States, these representations may, per-
haps, be thought caricatures ; in the Southern States are
witnesses who know their fidelity. What personal knowl-
edge the author has had, of the truth of incidents such
as here are related, will appear in its time.

It is a comfort to hope, as so many of the world's sor-
rows and wrongs have, from age to age, been lived down*

PREFACE. Ixxxv

so a time shall come when sketches similar to these shall
be valuable only as memorials of what has long ceased
to be.

When an enlightened and Christianized community
shall have, on the shores of Africa, laws, language, and
literature, drawn from among us, may then the scenes of
the house of bondage be to them like the remembrance
of Egypt to the Israelite, — a motive of thankfulness to
Him who hath redeemed them !

For, while politicians contend, and men are swerved
this way and that by conflicting tides of interest and
passion, the great cause of human liberty is in the hands
of One, of whom it is said : —

' ' He shall not fail nor be discouraged

Till lie have set judgment in the earth."
"He shall deliver the needy when he crieth,

The poor, and him that hath no helper.'1
" He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence,

And precious shall their blood be in his eight."

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN;

OR,

LIFE AMCOTG THE LOWLY.
CHAPTER I.

IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO A MAN OF HUMANITY.

; ATE in the afternoon of a chilly day in February,
two gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine,
in a well-furnished dining parlor, in the town of

P , in Kentucky. There were no servants

present, and the gentlemen, with chairs closely ap-
proaching, seemed to be discussing some subject with great
earnestness.

For convenience' sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentlemen.
One of the parties, however, when critically examined, did not
seem, strictly speaking, to come under the species. He was a
short thick-s-3t man, with coarse commonplace features, and that
swaggering air of pretension which marks a low man who is
trying to elbow his way upward in the world. He was much
overdressed, in a gaudy vest of many colors, a blue neckerchief,
bedropped gayly with yellow spots, and arranged with a flaunt-
ing tie, quite in keeping with the general air of the man. His
hands, large and coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings ;
arid he wore a heavy gold watch-chain, with a bundle of seals
of portentous size, and a great variety of colors, attached to it, —
which, in the ardor of conversation, he was in the habit of flour
ishing and jingling with evident satisfaction. His conversation
was in free and easy defiance of Murray's Grammar, and was
garnished at convenient intervals with various profane expres-
sions, which not even the desire to be graphic in our account
shall induce us to transcribe.

2 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gen-
tleman ; and the arrangements of the house, and the general
air of the housekeeping, indicated easy, and even opulent cir-
cumstances. As we before stated, the two were in the midst
of an earnest conversation.

" That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr.
Shelby.

" I can't make trade that way, — I positively can't, Mr.
Shelby," said the other, holding up a glass of wine between his
eye and the light.

" Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow ; he
is certainly worth that sum anywhere, — steady, honest, capa-
ble, manages my whole farm like a clock."

" You mean honest, as niggers go," said Haley, helping him-
self to a glass of brandy.

" No ; I mean, really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, pious
fellow. He got religion at a camp-meeting, four years ago; anu
I believe he really did get it. I 've trusted him, since then,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

with everything I have, — money, house, horses, — and let him
come and go round the country ; and I always found him true
and square in everything."

" Some folks don't believe there is pious niggers, Shelby,"
said Haley, with a candid flourish of his hand, " but / do. I
had a fellow, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans, -
't was as good as a meetin', now, really, to hear that critter pray ;
and he was quite gentle and quiet like. He fetched me a good
sum, too, for I bought him cheap of a man that was 'bilged to
sell out ; so I realized six hundred on him. Yes, I consider
religion a valeyable thing in a nigger, when it 's the genuine
article, and no mistake."

" Well, Tom 's got the real article, if ever a fellow had," re-
joined the other. "Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati
alone, to do business for me, and bring home five hundred dol
lars. ; Tom,' says I to him, ' I trust you, because I thinV
you 're a Christian, - - I know you would n't cheat.' Tom
comes back, sure enough ; I knew he would. Some low fel-
lows, they say, said to him, ' Tom, why don't you make tracks
for Canada 1 ' ' Ah, master trusted me, and I could n't,' — they
told me about it. I am sorry to part with Tom, I must say.
You ought to let him cover the whole balance of the debt ; and
yovi would, Haley, if you had any conscience."

" Well, I 've got just as much conscience as any man in busi-
ness can afford to keep, — just a little, you know, to swear by, as
't were," said the trader, jocularly ; " and, then, I 'm ready to
do anything in reason to 'blige friends ; but this yer, you see, is
a leetle too hard on a fellow, — a leetle too hard." The trader
sighed contemplatively, and poured out some more brandy.

"Well then, Haley, how will you trade?" said Mr. Shelby,
after an uneasy interval of silence.

" Well, have n't you a boy or gal that you could throw in
with Tom?"

" Hum ! — none that I could well spare ; to tell the truth, it 's
only hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don't
like parting with any of my hands, that 's a fact."

Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between
four and five years of age, entered the room. There was some-
thing in his appearance remarkably beautiful and engaging.
His black hair, tine as floss silk, hung in glossy curls about his
round dimpled face, while a pair of large dark eyes, full of fire
and softness, looked out from beneath the rich, long lashes, as he

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

peered curiously into the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and
yellow plaid, carefully made and neatly fitted, set off' to advan-
tage the dark and rich style
of his beauty ; and a certain
comic air of assurance, blend-
ed with bashfulness, showed
that he had been not unused
to being petted and noticed
by his master.

" Hulloa, Jim Crow ! " said
Mr. Shelby, whistling, and
snapping a bunch of raisins
towards him, " pick that up,
now ! "

The child scampered, with
all his little strength, after
the prize, while his master
laughed.

" Come here, Jim Crow,"
said he. The child came up,
and the master patted the
curly head, and chucked him
under the chin.

" Now, Jim, show this gen-
tleman how you can dance
and sing." The boy com-
menced one of those wild, grotesque songs common among the
negroes, in a rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing with
many comic evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all
in perfect time to the music.

" Bravo ! " said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an or-

ange.

Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe when he has the
rheumatism," said his master.

Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appear
ance of deformity and distortion, as, with his back humped up,
and his master's stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room
his childish face drawn into a doleful pucker, and spitting front
right to left, in imitation of an old man.

Both gentlemen laughed uproariously.

" Now, Jim," said his master, " show us how old Elder Bob-
bins leads the psalm." The boy drew his chubby face down

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 5

to a formidable length, and commenced toning a psalm tunf
through his nose with imperturbable gravity.

" Hurrah ! bravo ! what a young 'un ! " said Haley ; " that
chap 's a case, I '11 promise. Tell you what," said he, suddenly
clapping his hand on Mr. Shelby's shoulder, "fling in that
chap and I '11 settle the business, — I will. Come, now, if that
an't doing the thing up about the rightest ! "

At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and a
young quadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five, entered
the room.

There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identify
her as its mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye,
with its long lashes ; the same ripples of silky black hair. The
brown of her complexion gave way on the cheek to a percep-
tible flush, which deepened as she saw the gaze of the strange
man fixed upon her in bold and undisguised admiration. Her
dress was of the neatest possible fit, and set off to advantage
her finely moulded shape ; a delicately formed hand and a trim
foot and ankle were items of appearance that did not escape the
quick eye of the trader, well used to run up at a glance the
points of a fine female article.

"Well, Eliza1?" said her master, as she stopped and looked
hesitatingly at him.

" I was looking for Harry, please, sir " ; and the boy bounded
toward her, showing his spoils, which he had gathered in the
skirt of his robe.

" Well, take him away, then," said Mr. Shelby ; and hastily
she withdrew, carrying the child on her arm.

" By Jupiter," said the trader, turning to him in admiration,
" there 's an article, now ! You might make your fortune on
that ar gal in Orleans, any day. I Ve seen over a thousand, in
my day, paid down for gals not a bit handsomer."

" I don't want to make my fortune on her," said Mr. Shelby,
dryly ; and, seeking to turn the conversation, he uncorked a
bottle of fresh wine, and asked his companion's opinion of it.

" Capital, sir, — first chop ! " said the trader ; then turning
and slapping his hand familiarly on Shelby's shoulder, ht
added, -

" Come, how will you trade about the gal ] — what shall I
say for her, — what '11 you take ? "

" Mr. Haley, she is nut to be sold," said Shelby. " My wife
would not part with her for her weight in gold."

o UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

"Ay, ay! women always say such things, cause they han't
no sort of calculation. Just show 'em how many watches,
feathers, and trinkets one's weight in gold would buy, and
that alters the case, / reckon."

•; I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of ; I say no,
and I mean no," said Shelby, decidedly.

"Well, you'll let me have the boy, though," said the trader;
" you must own I Ye come down pretty handsomely for him."

" What on earth can you want with the child ] " said Shelby.

'' Why, I Ye got a friend that 's going into this yer branch
of the business, — wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for
the market. Fancy articles entirely, — sell for waiters, and so
on, to rich 'uns, that can pay for handsome 'uns. It sets off
one of yer great places, — a real handsome boy to open door,
wait and tend. They fetch a good sum ; and this little devil
is such a comical, musical concern, he's just the article."

" I would rather not sell him," said Mr. Shelby, thought-
fuily ; " the fact is, sir, I 'in a humane man, and I hate to take
the boy from his mother, sir."

" O, you do1? — La! yes, — something of that ar natur. I
understand, perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on with
woiuen, sometimes. I al'ays hates these yer screechin', scream-
in'' times. They are mighty onpleasant ; but, as I manages
business, I generally avoids 'em, sir. Now, what if you get
the girl off for a day, or a week, or so ; then the thing 's done
quietly, — all over before she comes home. Your wife might
get her some ear-rings, or a new gown, or some such truck, to
make up with her."

" I 'm afraid not."

" Lor bless ye, yes ! These critters an't like white folks,
you know ; they gets over things, only manage right. Now,
they say," said Haley, assuming a candid and confidential air,
" that this kind o' trade is hardening to the feelings ; but I
never found it so. Fact is, I never could do things up the
way some fellers manage the business. I Ye seen 'em as would
pull a woman's child out of her arms, and set him up to sell,
and she screechin' like mad all the time ;-- very bad policy,
- damages the article, — makes 'em quite unfit for service
sometimes. I knew a real handsome gal once, in Orleans, as
was entirely ruined by this sort o' handling. The fellow that
was trading for her did n't want her baby ; and she was one
of your real high sort, when her blood was up. I tell you, she

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 7

squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on
real awful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think on 't ;
and when they carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest
went ravin' mad, and died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of
a thousand dollars, just for want of management, — there's
where 't is. It 's always best to do the humane thing, sir ;
that 's been my experience." And the trader leaned back in
his chair, and folded his arm, with an air of virtuous decision,
apparently considering himself a second Wilberforce.

The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply ; for
while Mr. Shelby was thoughtfully peeling an orange, Haley
broke out afresh, with becoming diffidence, but as if actually
driven by the force of truth to say a few words more.

" It don't look well, now, for a feller to be praisin' himself ;
but I say it jest because it 's the truth. I believe I 'm reck-
oned to bring in about the finest droves of niggers that is
brought in, — at least, I 've been told so ; if I have once, I
reckon I have a hundred times, — all in good case,- — fat and
likely, and I lose as few as any man in the business. And I
lays it all to my management, sir ; and humanity, sir, I may
say, is the great pillar of my management."

Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, " In-
deed ! "

" Now, I 've been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I 've
been talked to. They an't pop'lar, and they an't common ;
but I stuck to 'em, sir ; I 've stuck to 'em, and realized well on
'em ; yes, sir, they have paid their passage, I may say," and
the trader laughed at his joke.

There was something so piquant and original in these elu-
cidations of humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laugh-
ing in company. Perhaps you laugh too, dear reader ; but
you know humanity conies out in a variety of strange forms
nowadays, and there is no end to the odd things that humane
people will say and do.

Mr. Shelby's laugh encouraged the trader to proceed.

" It 's strange now, but I never could beat this into people's
heads. Now, there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in
Natchez ; he was a clever fellow, Tom was, only the very devil
with niggers, — on principle 't was, you see, for a better-hearted
feller never broke bread ; 't was his system, sir. I used to talk
to Tom. ' Why, Tom,' I used to say, ' when your gals takes
on and cry, what 's the use o' crackin' on 'em over the head,

8 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

and knockin' on 'em round 1 It 's ridiculous,' says I, < anc
don't do no sort o' good. Why, I don't see no harm in theii
cryin',' says I ; ' it 's natur,' says I, ' and if natur can't blo\>,
off one way, it will another. Besides, Tom,' says I, ' it jes
spiles your gals ; they get sickly, and down in the mouth ; and
sometimes they gets ugly, — particular yallow gals do, — and
it 's the devil and all gettin' on 'em broke in. Now,' says I,
' why can't you kinder coax 'em up, and speak 'em fair ? De-
pend on it, Tom, a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a
lieap further than all your jawin' and crackin' ; and it pays
better,' says I, ' depend on 't.' But Tom could n't get the hang
on 't ; and he spiled so many for me, that I had to break off
with him, though he was a good-hearted fellow, and as fair a
business hand as is goin'."

" And do you find your ways o' managing do the business
better than Tom's 1 " said Mr. Shelby.

" Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any ways
can, I takes a leetle care about the onpleasaut parts, like selling
young uns and that, — get the gals out of the way, — out of
sight, out of mind, you know, — and when it 's clean done,
and can't be helped, they naturally gets used to it. 'Tan't,
you know, as if it was white folks, that 's brought up in the
way of 'spectin' to keep their children and wives, and all that.
Niggers, you know, that 's fetched up properly han't no kind
of 'spectations of no kind ; so all these things conies easier."

" I 'm afraid mine are not properly brought up, then," said
Mr. Shelby.

" S'pose not ; .you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You
mean well by 'em, but 'tan't no real kindness, arter all. Now,
a nigger, you see, what 's got to be hacked and tumbled round
the world, and sold to Tom, and Dick, and the Lord knows
who, 'tan't no kindness to be givin' on him notions and ex-
pectations, and bringin' on him up too well, for the rough and
tumble comes all the harder on him arter. Now, I venture tc
say, your niggers would be quite chop-fallen in a place where
some of your plantation niggers would be singing and whoop-
ing like all possessed. Every man, you know, Mr. Shelby, nat-
urally thinks well of his own ways ; and I think I treat niggers
just about as well as it 's ever worth while to treat 'em."

" It 's a happy thing to be satisfied," said Mr. Shelby, with
a slight shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable
nature.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 9

" Well," said Haley, after they had both silently picked
*"/heir nuts for a season, " what do you say 1 "

" I '11 think the matter over, and talk with my wife," said
Mr. Shelby. " Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter car-
•ied on in the quiet way you speak of, you 'd best not let your
business in this neighborhood be known. It will get out
among my boys, and it will not be a particularly quiet busi-
ness getting away any of my fellows, if they know it, I '11
promise you."

" O, certainly, by all means, mum ! of course. But I '11
tell you, I 'in in a devil of a hurry, and shall want to know, as
soon as possible, what I may depend on," said he, rising and
putting on his overcoat.

" Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and you
shall have my answer," said Mr. (Shelby, and the trader bowed
himself out of the apartment.

:' 1 'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the
steps," said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed,
"with his impudent assurance; but he knows how much he
has me at advantage. If anybody had ever said to me that I
should sell Tom down south to one of those rascally traders,
I should have said, ' Is thy servant a dog, that he should do
this thing ] ' And now it must come, for aught I see. And
Eliza's child, too ! I know tbat I shall have some fuss with
wife about that ; and, for that matter, about Tom, too. So
much for being in debt, — heigh-ho : The fellow sees his advan-
tage, and means to push it."

Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to be
seen in the State of Kentucky. The general prevalence of
agricultural pursuits of a quiet and gradual nature, not requir-
ing those periodic seasons of hurry and pressure that are called
for in the business of more southern districts, makes the task
of the negro a more healthful and reasonable one ; while the
master, content with a more gradual style of acquisition, has
not those temptations to hard-heartedness which always over-
come frail human nature when the prospect of sudden and
rapid gain is weighed in the balance, with no heavier counter-
poise than the interests of the helpless and unprotected.

Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the good-
humored indulgence of some masters and mistresses, and the
affectionate loyalty of some slaves, might be tempted to dreaip
the oft-fabled poetic legend of a patriarchal institution, and all

10 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

that ; but over and above the scene there broods a portentous
shadow, — the shadow of law. So long as the law considers
all these human beings, with beating hearts and living affec-
tions, only as so many things belonging to a master, — so long
as the failure, or misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the
kindest owner may cause them any day to exchange a life of
kind protection and indulgence for one of hopeless misery and
toil, — so long it is impossible to make anything beautiful or
desirable in the best-regulated administration of slavery.

Mr. Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-natured
and kindly, and disposed to easy indulgence of those around
him, and there had never been a lack of anything which might
contribute to the physical comfort of the negroes on his estate.
He had, however, speculated largely and quite loosely ; had
involved himself deeply, and his notes to a large amount had
come into the hands of Haley ; and this small piece of informa-
tion is the key to the preceding conversation.

Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door,
Eliza had caught enough of the conversation to know that a
trader was making offers to her master for somebody.

She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she
came out ; but her mistress just then calling, she was obliged
to hasten away.

Still she thought she heard the trader make an offer for
her boy ; — could she be mistaken ] Her heart swelled and
throbbed, and she involuntarily strained him so tight that the
little fellow looked up into her face in astonishment.

"Eliza, girl, what ails you to-day]" said her mistress, when
Eliza had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the work-
stand, and finally was abstractedly offering her mistress a long
nifhtfown in place of the silk dress she had ordered her to

~ O i

bring from the wardrobe.

Eliza started. " 0, missis ! " she said, raising her eyes ;
then, bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and began
sobbing.

" Why, Eliza, child ! what ails you?" said her mistress.

"0, missis, missis," said Eliza, "there's been a trader talk-
ing with master in the parlor ! I heard him."

" Well, silly child, suppose there has."

" 0, missis, do you suppose mas'r would sell my Harry ? "
And the poor creature threw herself into a chair, and sobbed
convulsively.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

'* Sell him ! No, you foolish girl ! You know your master
never deals with those southern traders, and never muans to
sell any of his servants, as long as they behave well. Why,
you silly child, who do you think would want to buy your
Harry ? Do you think all the world are set on him as you are,
you goosie? Come, cheer up, and hook my dress. There
now, put my back hair up in that pretty braid you learnt the
other day, and don't go listening at doors any more."

" Well, but, missis, you never would give your consent —
to— to — "

" Nonsense, child ! to be sure I should n't. What do you
talk so for1? I would as soon have one of my own children
sold. But really, Eliza, you are getting altogether too proud of
that little fellow. A man can't put his nose into the door, but
you think he must be coming to buy him."

Reassured by her mistress's confident tone, Eliza proceeded
nimbly and adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her own fears,
as she proceeded.

12 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN* ; OK,

Mrs. Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellectually
and morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of
mind which one often marks as characteristic of the women of
Kentucky, she added high moral and religious sensibility and
principle, carried out with great energy and ability into prac-
tical results. Her husband, who made no professions to any
particular religious character, nevertheless reverenced and re-
spected the consistency of hers, and stood, perhaps, a little in
awe of her opinion. Certain it was that he gave her unlim-
ited scope in all her benevolent efforts for the comfort, instruc-
tion, and improvement of her servants, though he never took
any decided part in them himself. In fact, if not exactly a
believer in the doctrine of the efficacy of the extra good
works of saints, he really seemed somehow or other to fancy
that his wife had piety and benevolence enough for two, — to
indulge a shadowy expectation of getting into heaven through
her superabundance of qualities to which he made no particu-
lar pretension.

The heaviest load on his mind, after his conversation with
the trader, lay in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his
wife the arrangement contemplated, — meeting the importuni-
ties and opposition which he knew he should have reason to
encounter.

Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband's em-
barrassments, and knowing only the general kindliness of his
temper, had been quite sincere in the entire incredulity with
which she had met Eliza's suspicions. In fact, she dismissed
the matter from her mind, without a second thought ; and
being occupied in preparations for an evening visit, it passed
out of her thoughts entirely.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

CHAPTEE II.

THE MOTHER.

1 LIZA had been brought up by her mistress, from
girlhood, as a petted and indulged favorite.

The traveller in the south must often have re-
marked that peculiar air of refinement, that soft-
ness of voice and manner, which seems in many
cases to be a particular gift to the quadroon and mulatto women.
These natural graces in the quadroon are often united with
beauty of the most dazzling kind, and in almost every case
with a personal appearance prepossessing and agreeable. Eliza,
such as we have described her, is not a fancy sketch, but taken
from remembrance, as we saw her, years ago, in Kentucky.
Safe under the protecting care of her mistress, Eliza had
reached maturity without those temptations which make beauty
so fatal an inheritance to a slave. She had been married to a
bright and talented young mulatto man, who was a slave on a
neighboring estate, and bore the name of George Harris.

This young man had been hired out by his master to work
in a bagging factory, where his adroitness and ingenuity caused
him to be considered the first hand in the place. He had in-
vented a machine for the cleaning of the hemp, which, consid-
ering the education and circumstances of the inventor, displayed
quite as much mechanical genius as Whitney's cotton-gin.*

He was possessed of a handsome person and pleasing man-
ners, and was a general favorite in the factory. Nevertheless,
as this young man was in the eye of the law not a man, but a
thing, all these superior qualifications were subject to the con-
trol of a vulgar, narrow-minded, tyrannical master. This same
gentleman, having heard of the fame of George's invention, took
a ride over to the factory, to see what this intelligent chattel

* A machine of this description was really the invention of a young colored
man in Kentucky.

14 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN > OR,

had been about. He was received with great enthusiasm by
the employer, who congratulated him on possessing so valuable
a slave.

He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machinery
by George, who, in high spirits, talked so fluently, held him-
self so erect, looked so handsome and manly, that his master
began to feel an uneasy consciousness of inferiority. What
business had his slave to be marching round the country, in-
venting machines, and holding up his head among gentlemen 1
He 'd soon put a stop to it. He 'd take him back, and put him
to hoeing and digging, and " see if he 'd step about so smart."
Accordingly, the manufacturer and all hands concerned were
astounded when he suddenl}r demanded George's wages, and
announced his intention of taking him home.

" But, Mr. Harris," remonstrated the manufacturer, " is n't
this rather sudden 1 "

" What if it is 1 — is n't the man mine ? "

" We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of conipen*
sation."

" No object at all, sir. I don't need to hire any of my
hands out, unless I 've a mind to."

" But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business."

" Dare say he may be ; never was much adapted to any-
thing that I set him about, I '11 be bound."

" But only think of his inventing this machine," interposed
one of the workmen, rather unluckily.

" 0 yes ! — a machine for saving work, is it1? He 'd invent
that, I '11 be bound ; let a nigger alone for that, any time. They
are all labor-saving machines themselves, every one of 'em.
No, he shall tramp ! "

George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom
thus suddenly pronounced by a power that he knew was irre-
sistible. He folded his arms, tightly pressed in his lips, but a
whole volcano of bitter feelings burned in his bosom, and sent
streams of fire through his veins. He breathed short, and his
large dark eyes flashed like live coals ; and he might have
broken out into some dangerous ebullition, had not the kindly
manufacturer touched him on the arm, and said, in a low tone, —

" Give way, George ; go with him for the present. We '11
try to help you, yet."

The tyrant observed the whisper, and conjectured its import,
though he could not hear what was said ; and he inwardly

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

strengthened himself in his determination to keep the power
he possessed over his victim.

George was taken home, and put to the meanest drudgery of
the farm. He had been able to repress every disrespectful
word ; but the flashing eye, the gloomy and troubled brow,
were part of a natural language that could not be repressed, —
indubitable signs, which showed too plainly that the man could
•not become a thing.

It was during the happy period of his employment in the
factory that George had seen and married his wife. During
that period, — being much trusted and favored by his employer,
• — he had free liberty to come and go at discretion. The mar-
riage was highly approved of by Mrs. Shelby, who, with a little
womanly complacency in match-making, felt pleased to unite

16 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

her handsome favorite with one of her own class who seemed in
every way suited to her ; and so they were married in her mis
tress's great parlor, and her mistress herself adorned the bride's
beautiful hair with orange-blossoms, and threw over it the bridal
veil, which certainly could scarce have rested on a fairer head ;
and there was no lack of white gloves, and cake and wine, —
of admiring guests to praise the bride's beauty, and her mistress's
indulgence and liberality. For a year or two Eliza saw her
husband frequently, and there was nothing to interrupt their
happiness, except the loss of two infant children, to whom she
was passionately attached, and whom she mourned with a grief
so intense as to call for gentle remonstrance from her mistress,
who sought, with maternal anxiety, to direct her naturally pas-
sionate feelings within the bounds of reason and religion.

After the birth of little Harry, however, she had gradually
become tranquillized and settled ; and every bleeding tie and
throbbing nerve, once more entwined with that little life,
seemed to become sound and healthful, and Eliza was a happy
woman up to the time that her husband was rudely torn from
his kind employer, and brought under the iron sway of his
legal owner.

The manufacturer, true to his word, visited Mr. Harris a
week or two after George had been taken away, when, as he
hoped, the heat of the occasion had passed away, and tried
every possible inducement to lead him to restore him to his
former employment.

" You need n't trouble yourself to talk any longer," said he,
doggedly ; " I know my own business, sir."

" I did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only thought
that you might think it for your interest to let your man to ui
on the terms proposed."

" 0, I understand the matter well enough. I sa.w your
winking and whispering, the day I took him out of the fac-
tory ; but you don't come it over mo that way. It 's a free
country, sir ; the man 's mine, and I do what I please with
him, — that 's it ! "

And so fell George's last hope ; — nothing before him but a
life of toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every little
smarting vexation and indignity which tyrannical ingenuity
could devise.

A very humane jurist once said, The worst use you can put
a man to is to hang him. No ; there is another use that a
man can be nut to that is WORSE !

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 17

CHAPTEE III.

THE HUSBAND AND FATHER.

! BS. SHELBY had gone on her visit, and Eliza
stood in the veranda, rather dejectedly looking
after the retreating carriage, when a hand was
laid on her shoulder. She turned, and a bright
smile lighted up her fine eyes.

" George, is it you 1 How you frightened me ! Well ; I am
so glad you 's come ! Missis is gone to spend the afternoon ;
BO come into my little room, and we '11 have the time all to
ourselves."

Saying this, she drew him into a neat little apartment open-
ing on the veranda, where she generally sat at her sewing,
within call of her mistress.

" How glad I am ! -- why don't you smile 1 — and look at
Harry, --how lie grows." The boy stood shyly regarding his
father through his curls, holding close to the skirts of his
mother's dress. " Is n't he beautiful 1 " said Eliza, lifting his
long curls and kissing him.

" I wish he 'd never been born ! " said George, bitterly. " I
wish I 'd never been born myself ! "

Surprised and frightened, Eliza sat down, leaned her head
on her husband's shoulder, and burst into tears.

" There now, Eliza, it 's too bad for me to make you feel so,
poor girl ! " said he, fondly ; " it 's too bad. 0, how I wish
you never had seen me, — you might have been happy ! "

"George ! George ! how can you talk sol What dreadful
thing has happened, or is going to happen 1 I 'm sure we 've
been very happy, till lately."

" So we have, dear," said George. Then drawing his chila
on his knee, he gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and
passed his hands through his long curls.

" Just like you, Eliza ; and you are the handsomest woman
I ever saw, and the best one I ever wish to see ; but, 0, I
wish I 'd never seen you, nor ypu me ! "

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" 0, George, how can you ! "

" Yes, Eliza, it 's all misery, misery, misery ! My life is
bitter as wormwood ; the very life is burning out of me. I 'm
a poor, miserable, forlorn drudge ; I shall only drag you down
with me, that 's all. What 's the use of our trying to do
anything, trying to know anything, trying to be anything?
What 's the use of living 1 I wish I was dead ! "

" 0, now, dear George, that is really wicked ! I know how
feel about losing your place in the factory, and you have a
hard master ; but pray be patient, and perhaps something -

" Patient ! " said he, interrupting her ; " haven't I been pa-
tient? Did I say a word when he came and took me away,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 19

for no earthly reason, from the place where everybody was
kind to me 1 I 'd paid him truly every jent of my earnings,

— and they all say I worked well."

" Well, it is dreadful," said Eliza ; " but, after all, he is your
master, you know."

"My master! and who made him my master1? That's
what I think of, --what right has he to me? I 'm a man as
much as he is. I 'm a better man than he is. I know more
about business than he does ; I am a better manager than he is ;
I can read better than he can ; I can write a better hand, -
uad I 've learned it all myself, and no thanks to him, --I've
learned it in spite of him ; and now what right has he to make
a dray-horse of me 1 — to take me from things I can do, and
do better than he can, and put me to Avork that any horse can.
do 1 He tries to do it ; he says he '11 bring me down and
uumble me, and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest, and
dirtiest work, on purpose ! "

" O, George ! George ! you frighten me ! Why, I never
heard you talk so ; I 'm afraid you '11 do something dreadful.
I don't wonder at your feelings, at all ; but 0, do be careful

— do, do — for my sake, — for Harry's ! "

" I have been careful, and I have been patient, but it 's
growing worse and worse ; flesh and blood can't bear it any
longer ; — every chance he can get to insult and torment me,
he takes. I thought I could do my work well, and keep on
quiet, and have some time to read and learn out of work
hours ; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on.
He says that though I don't say anything, he sees I 've got the
devil in me, and he means to bring it out ; and one of these
days it will come out in a way that he won't like, or I 'm mis-
taken ! "

" 0 dear ! what shall we do 1 " said Eliza, mournfully.

" It was only yesterday," said George, " as I was busy load-
ing stones into a cart, that young Mas'rTom stood there, slash-
ing his whip so near the horse that the creature was frightened
I asked him to stop, as pleasant as I could, — he just kept
right on. I begged him again, and then he turned on me, and
began striking me. I held his hand, and then he screamed
and kicked and ran to his father, and told him that I was
fighting him. He came 'in a rage, and said he 'd teach me
who was my master ; and he tied me to a tree, and cut switches
for young master, and told him that he might whip me till he

20 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

was tired ; — and he did do it ! If I don't make him rememher
it, some time ! " and the brow of the young man grew dark, and
his eyes burned with an expression that made his young wife
tremble. " Who made this man my master ? That 's what J
want to know ! " he said.

"Well," said Eliza, mournfully, "I always thought that I
must obey my master and mistress, or I could n't be a Chris-
tian."

" There is some sense in it, in your case ; they have brought
you up like a child, fed you, clothed you, indulged you, and
taught you, so that you have a good education ; that is some
reason why they should claim you. But I have been kicked
and cuffed and sworn at, and at the best only let alone ; and
what do I owe? I've paid for all my keeping a hundred times
over. I won't bear it. No, I won't ! " he said, clenching his
hand with a fierce frown.

Eliza trembled, and was silent. She had never seen her
husband in this mood before ; and her gentle system of ethics
seemed to bend like a reed in the surges of such passions.

" You know poor little Carlo, that you gave me," added
George ; " the creature has been about all the comfort that
I 've had. He has slept with me nights, and followed me
around days, and kind o' looked at me as if he understood how
I felt. Well, the other day I was just feeding him with a few
old scraps I picked up by the kitchen door, and Mas'r came
along, and said I was feeding him up at his expense, and that
he could n't afford to have every nigger keeping his dog, and
ordered me to tie a stone to his neck and throw him in the
pond."

" 0, George, you did n't do it ! "

" Do it ] not I ! — but he did. Mas'r and Tom pelted the
poor drowning creature with stones. Poor thing ! he looked
at me so mournful, as if he wondered why I didn't save him.
I had to take a flogging because I would n't do it myself. I
don't care. Mas'r will find out that I 'm one that whipping
won't tame. My day will come yet, if he don't look out."

" What are you going to do ? 0, George, don't do anything
wicked ; if you only trust in God, and try to do right, he 'll
deliver you."

" I an't a Christian like you, Eliza ; my heart 's full of bit-
terness ; I can't trust in God. Why does he let things be so ? "

" 0, George, we must have faith. Mistress says that when

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

all things go wrong to us, we must believe that God is doing
'die very best."

" That 's easy to say for people that are sitting on their sofas
and riding in their carriages ; but let 'em be where I am, I
guess it would come some harder. I wish I could be good ;
but my heart burns, and can't be reconciled, anyhow. You

could n't, in my place. — you can't now, if I tell you all I 've
got to say. You don't know the whole yet."

" What can be coming now 1 "

" Well, lately Mas'r has been saying that he was a fool to let
me marry off the place ; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his
tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above
him, and that I 've got proud notions from you ; and he says
he won't let me come here any more, and that I shall take a
wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded
and grumbled these things ; but yesterday he told me that I
should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with
her, or he would sell me down river."

" Why - - but you were married to me, by the minister, as
much as if you 'd been a white man ! " said Eliza, simply.

" Don't you know a slave can't be married 1 There is no
law in this country for that ; I can't hold you for my wife if
he chooses to part us. That 's why I wish I 'd never seen you,
— why I wish I 'd never been born ; it would have been bet-
ter for us both, — it would have been better for this poor child
if he had never been born. All tliis may happen to him yet.1"

22 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" 0, but master is so kind ! "

" Yes, but who knows 1 — he may die, — and then he may
be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is
handsome, and smart, and bright ] I tell you, Eliza, that t
sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasai i:
thing your child is or has ; it will make him worth too much
for you to keep ! "

The words smote heavily on Eliza's heart ; the vision of the
trader came before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her
a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She
looked nervously out on the veranda, where the boy, tired of
the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding
triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby's walking-stick.
She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but
checked herself.

" No, no,— he has enough to bear, poor fellow ! " she thought.
" No, I won't tell him ; besides, it an't true. Missis never de-
ceives us."

" So, Eliza, my girl," said the husband, mournfully, " bear
up, now ; and good by, for I 'm going."

" Going, George ! Going where 1 "

" To Canada," said he, straightening himself up ; " and when
I 'rn there, I '11 buy you ; that 's all the hope that 's left us.
You have a kind master, that won't refuse to sell you. I '11
buy you and the boy ; — God helping me, I will ! "

" O, dreadful ! if you should be taken ] "

" I won't be taken, Eliza ; I '11 die first ! I '11 be free, or
I '11 die ! "

" You won't kill yourself! "

" 'Jo need of that. They will kill me, fast enough ; they
never will get me down the river alive ! "

" 0, George, for my sake, do be careful ! Don't do anything
wicked ; don't lay hands on yourself, or anybody else. You
are tempted too much — too much ; but don't — go you must
- but go carefully, prudently ; pray God to help you."

" Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas'r took it into his
head to send me right by here, with a note to Mr. Symrnes,
that lives a mile past. I believe he expected I should come
here to tell you what I have. It would please him if he
thought it would aggravate ' Shelby's folks,' as he calls 'em.
I 'm going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all was
over. I 've got some preparations made, — and there are those

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 23

that will help me ; and, in the course of a week or so, I shall
be among the missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza ; perhaps
the good Lord will hear you"

" 0, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him ; then
you won't do anything wicked."

" Well, now, good by" said George, holding Eliza's hands,
and gazing into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent ;
then there were last words, and sobs, and bitter weeping, — such
parting as those may make whose hope to meet again is as the
spider's web, — and the husband and wife were parted.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER IV.

AN EVENING IN UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

)HE cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building,
close adjoining to " the house," as the negro par
excellence designates his master's dwelling. In
front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every
summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a variety
of fruits and vegetables nourished under careful tending. The
whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a
native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left
scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in
summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias,
four-o'clocks, found an indulgent corner in which to unfold
their splendors, and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe's
heart.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house
is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as
head cook, has left to inferior officers in the kitchen the busi-
ness of clearing away and washing dishes, and come out into
her own snug territories, to " get her ole man's supper " ; there-
fore, doubt not that it is she you see by the fire, presiding with
anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stewpan, and
anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle,
from whence steam forth indubitable intimations of " something
good." A round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to
suggest the idea that she might have been washed over with
white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole plump
countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from
under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however,
if we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness
which becomes the first cook of the neighborhood, as Aunt
Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.

A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of
her soul. Not a chicken or turkey or duck in the barnyard

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 25

but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed
evidently to be reflecting on their latter end ; and certain it
was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing, and
roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in
any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties
of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous
to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised corn-
pounders ; and she would shake her fat sides with honest pride
and merriment, as she would narrate the fruitless efforts that
one and another of her compeers had made to attain to her
elevation.

The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of din-
ners and suppers " in style," awoke all the energies of her soul ;
and no sight was more welcome to her than a pile of travelling
trunks launched on the veranda, for then she foresaw fresh
efforts and fresh triumphs.

Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the
bake-pan ; in which congenial operation we shall leave her till
we finish our picture of the cottage.

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy
spread ; and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting, of some
considerable size. On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took
her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life ; and
it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact,
were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far
as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations
of little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of
the establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much
humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for use. The
wall over the fireplace was adorned with some very brilliant
scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington, drawn
and colored in a manner which would certainly have astonished
that hero, if ever he had happened to meet with its like.

On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed
boys, with glistening black eyes and fat shining cheeks, were
busy in superintending the first walking operations of the baby,
which, as is usually the case, consisted in getting up on its feet,
balancing a moment, and then tumbling down, — each sue-
cessive failure being violently cheered, as something decidedly
clever.

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out in
front of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

saucers of a decidedly brilliant pattern, with other symptoms
of an approaching meal. At this table was seated Uncle Tom,
Mr. Shelby's best hand, who, as he is to be the hero of our
story, we must daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large,
broad-chested, powerfully made man, of a full glossy black, and
a face whose truly African features were characterized by an
expression of grave and steady good sense, united with much
kindliness and benevolence. There was something about hia
whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a con-
fiding and humble simplicity.

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying
before him, on which he was carefully and slowly endeavoring
to accomplish a copy of some letters, in which operation he
was overlooked by young Mas'r George, a smart, bright boy of
thirteen, who appeared fully to realize the dignity of his position
as instructor.

" Not that way, Uncle Tom, — not that way," said he,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 27

briskly, as Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his g
the wrong side out ; " that makes a q, you see."

"La sakes, now, does it1?" said Uncle Tom, looking with
a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly
scrawled q's and g's innumerable for his edification ; and then,
taking the pencil in his big, heavy fingers, he patiently re-
commenced.

" How easy white folks al'us does things ! " said Aunt Chloe,
pausing while she Avas greasing a griddle Avith a scrap of bacon
on her fork, and regarding young Master George with pride.
" The way he can write, now ! and read, too ! and then to come
out here evenings and read his lessons to us, --it's mighty
interestin' ! "

" But, Aunt Chloe, I 'm getting mighty hungry," said
George. " Is n't that cake in the skillet almost done ] "

" Mose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid
and peeping in, — " browning beautiful, — a real lovely brown.
Ah ! let me alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some
cake, t' other day, jes to lam her, she said. ' 0, go way, Missis,'
says I ; ' it really hurts my feelin's, now, to see good vittles
spiled dat ar way ! Cake ris all to one side, - - no shape at all ;
no more than my shoe ; — go way ! ' :

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally's green-
ness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the hake-kettle, and
disclosed to view a neatly baked pound-cake, of which no city
confectioner need to have been ashamed. This being evidently
the central point of the entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now
to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.

" Here you, Mose and Pete ! get out de way, you niggers !
Get away, Polly, honey, — mammy '11 give her baby somefin,
by and by. Now, Mas'r George, you jest take off dem books,
and set down now with my old man, and I '11 take up de sau-
sages, and have de first griddle full of cakes on your plates in
less dan no time."

" They wanted me to come to supper in the house," said
George ; " but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt
Chloe."

" So you did, — so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heap-
ing the smoking batter-cakes on his plate ; " you know'd your
old aunty 'd keep the best for you. 0, let you alone for dat !
Go way ! " and, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her
finger, designed to be immensely facetious, and turned again to
her griddle with great briskness.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OE,

AUNT CHLOE.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 29

" Now for the cake," said Mas'r George, when the activity
of the griddle department had somewhat subsided ; and, with
that, the youngster nourished a large knife over the article in
question.

" La bless you, Mas'r George ! " said Aunt Chloe, with
earnestness, catching his arm, " you would u't be for cuttin' il
wid dat ar great heavy knife ! Smash all down, — spile all de
pretty rise of it. Here, I 've got a thin old knife, I keeps
sharp a purpose. Dar now, see ! comes apart light as a feather !
Now eat away, — you won't get anything to beat dat ar."

" Tom Lincon says," said George, speaking with his mouth
full, " that their Jinny is a better cook than you."

" Dem Lincons an't much 'count, no way ! " said Aunt Chloe,
contemptuously ; " I mean, set alongside our folks. They 'a
'spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way ; but, as to
gettin' up anything in style, they don't begin to have a notion
on 't. Set Mas'r Lincon, now,*alongside Mas'r Shelby ! Good
Lor ! and Missis Lincon, — can she kinder sweep it into a room
like my missis, — so kinder splendid, yer know ! 0, go way !
don't tell me nothin' of dem Lincons!" —and Aunt Chloe
tossed her head as one who hoped she did know something of
the world.

" Well, though, I 've heard you say," said George, " that
Jinny was a pretty fair cook."

" So I did," said Aunt Chloe, — "I may say dat. Good,
plain, common cookin' Jinny '11 do ; — make a good pone o'
bread, — bile her taters far, --her corn cakes is n't extra, not
extra now, Jinny's corn cakes is n't, but then they 's far, — but,
Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do 1 Why,
she makes pies, — sartin she does ; but what kinder crust ? Can
she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and
lies all up like a puff] Now, I went over thar when Miss
Mary was gwine to be married, and Jinny she jest showed
me de weddin' pies. Jinny and I is good friends, ye know.
I never said nothin' ; but go long, Mas'r George ! Why, I
should n't sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies
like dem ar. Why, dey warn't no 'count 't all."

" I suppose Jinny thought tney were ever so nice," said
George.

" Thought so ! — did n't she 1 Thar she was, showing 'em
AS innocent, — ye see, it 's jest here, Jinny dont know. Lor,
the family an't nothing ! She can't be spected to know I

30 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

'T an't no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r George, you does n't kuoxs
halt' your privileges in yer family and bringin' up ! " Here
Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.

" I 'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pud-
ding privileges," said George. " Ask Tom Lincon if I don't
crow over him, every time I meet him."

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty
guffaw of laughter, at this witticism of young Mas'r's, laugh-
ing till the tears rolled down her black, shining cheeks, and
varying the exercise with playfully slapping and poking Mas'r
Georgey, and telling him to go way, and that he was a case, — -
that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her,
one of these days ; and, between each of these sanguinary pre-
dictions, going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than
the other, till George really began to think that he was a very
dangerously witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful
how he talked " as funny as he i3ould."

" And so ye telled Tom, did ye ? 0, Lor ! what young uns
will be up ter ! Ye crowed over Tom ? 0, Lor ! Mas'r George,
if ye would n't make a hornbug laugh ! "

" Yes," said George, " I says to him, ' Tom, you ought to
see some of Aunt Chloe's pies ; they 're the right sort,' says I."
" Pity, now, Tom could n't," said Aunt Chloe, on whose
benevolent heart the idea of Tom's benighted condition seemed
to make a strong impression. " Ye oughter just ask him here
to dinner, some o' these times, Mas'r George," she added ; " it
would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas'r George, ye
oughtenter feel 'bove nobody, on 'count yer privileges, 'cause
all° our privileges is gi'n to us ; we ought al'ays to 'member
that," said Aunt Chloe, looking quite serious.

" Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week," said
George ; " and you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we '11
make5 him stare. Won't we make him eat so he won't get over
it for a fortnight 1 "

" Yes, yes, — sartin," said Aunt Chloe, delighted ; " yon Tl
see. Lor ! to think of some of our dinners ! Yer mind dat
ar great chicken-pie I made when we guv de dinner to General
Knox 1 I and Missis, we come pretty near quarrelling about
dat ar crust. What does get into ladies sometimes, I don't
know ; but, sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o'
'sponsibility on 'em, as ye may say, and is all kinder ' seris
and tak<m up, dey takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 31

kinder interferin' ! Now, Missis, she wanted me to do clis
way, and she wanted me to do dat way ; and, tinally, I got
kinder sarcy, and, says I, ' Now, Missis, do jist look at dem
beautiful white hands o' yourn, with long lingers, and all a
sparkling with rings, like my white lilies when de dew 's on
'em ; and look at my great black stumpin' hands. Now, don't
ye think dat de Lord must have meant me to make de pie-
crust, and you to stay in de parlor1? Dar ! 1 was jist so sarcy,
Mas'r George."

" And what did mother say 1 " said George.

"Say1? — why, she kinder larfed in her eyes, — dem great
handsome eyes o' hern ; and, says she, ' Well, Aunt Chloe, I
think you are about in the right on 't,' says she ; and she went
off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over de head for
bein' so sarcy ; but dar 's whar 't is, -- I can't do nothin' with
ladies in de kitchen ! "

" Well, you made out well with that dinner, — I remember
everybody said so," said George.

"Did n't I1? And wan't I behind de dinin'-room door dat
bery day 1 and did n't I see de General pass his plate three
times for some more dat bery pie 1 — and, says he, ' You must
have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby.' Lor ! I was lit to split
myself.

" And de Gineral, he knows what cookin' is," said Aunt
Chloe, drawing herself up with an air. "Bery nice man, de
Gineral ! He comes of one of de bery fastest families in Old
Virginny ! He knows what 's what, now, as well as I do, — de
Gineral. Ye see, there 's pints in all pies, Mas'r George ; but
't an't everybody knows what they is, or orter be. But the
Gineral, he knows ; I knew by his 'marks he made. Yes, he
knows what de pints is ! "

By this time, Master George had arrived at that pass to
which even a boy can come (under uncommon circumstances),
when he really could not eat another morsel, and, therefore,
he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and glisten-
ing eyes which were regarding their operations hungrily from
the opposite corner.

" Here, you Mose, Pete," he said, breaking off liberal bits,
and throwing it at them ; " you want some, don't you 1 Come,
Aunt Chloe, bake them some cakes."

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the
chimney-corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile

32 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alternately fill-
ing its mouth and her own, and distributing to Mose and Pete,
who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as they rolled about
on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and occasion-
ally pulling the baby's toes.

" O, go long, will ye 1 " said the mother, giving now and then
a kick, in a kind of general way, under the table, when the
movement became too obstreperous. "Can't ye be decent
when white folks comes to see ye 1 Stop dat ar, now, will ye ?
Better mind yerselves, or I '11 take ye down a button-hole lower,
when Mas'r George is gone ! "

What meaning was couched under this terrible threat, it is
difficult to say ; but certain it is that its awful indistinctness
seemed to produce very little impression on the young sinners
addressed.

" La, now ! " said Uncle Tom, " they are so full of tickle all
the while, they can't behave theirselves."

Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with
hands and faces well plastered with molasses, began a vigorous;
kissing of the baby.

" Get along wid ye ! " said the mother, pushing away their
woolly heads. " Ye '11 all stick together, and never get clar, if
ye do dat fashion. Go long to de spring and wash yerselves ! "
she said, seconding her exhortations by a slap, which resounded
very formidably, but which seemed only to knock out so much
more laugh from the young ones, as they tumbled precipitately
over each other out of doors, where they fairly screamed with
merriment.

" Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns 1 " said Aunt
Chloe, rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept
for such emergencies, she poured a little water out of the
cracked teapot on it, and began rubbing off the molasses from
the baby's face and hands ; and, having polished her till she
shone, she set her down in Tom's lap, while she busied herself
in clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals ir.
pulling Tom's nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat
hands in his woolly hair, which last operation seemed to afford
her special content.

" An't she a peart young un ? " said Tom, holding her from
him to take a full-length view ; then, getting up, he set her on
his broad shoulder and began capering and dancing with her,
while Mas'r George snapped at her with his pocket-handker

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 33

chief, and Mose and Pete, now returned again, roared after hei
like bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they " fairly took her
head off" with their noise. As, according to her own state-
ment, this surgical operation was a matter of daily occurrence
in the cabin, the declaration no whit abated the merriment, till
every one had roared and tumbled and danced themselves down
to a state of composure.

" Well, now, I hopes you 're done," said Aunt Chloe. who
had been busy in pulling out a rude box of a trundle-bed ;
" and now, you Mose and you Pete, get into thar ; for we 's
goin' to have the meetin'."

" 0 mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin',
— meetin' s is so curis. We likes "em."

"La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let 'em sit up," said
Mas'r George, decisively, giving a push to the rude machine.

Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highly
delighted to push the thing under, saying, as she did so, " Well,
mebbe 't will do 'em some good."

The house now resolved itself into a committee of the whole,
to consider the accommodations and arrangements for the
meeting.

" AVhat we 's to do for cheers, now, 7 declar I don't know,"
said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle
Tom's, weekly, for an indefinite length of time, without any
more " cheers," there seemed some encouragement to hope that
% way would be discovered at present.

" Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer,
last week," suggested Mose.

" You go long ! I '11 boun' you pulled 'em out ; some o' your
shines,'' said Aunt Chloe.

" Well, it '11 stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall ! "
said Mose.

" Den Uncle Peter mus' n't sit in it, cause he al'ays hitches
when he gets a singing. He hitched pretty nigh across de
room, t' other night," said Pete.

" Good Lor ! get him in it, then," said Mose, " and den
he 'd begin, ' Come saints and sinners, hear me tell,' and den
down he 'd go," — and Mose imitated precisely the nasal tone?
of the old man, tumbling on the floor, to illustrate the supposed
catastrophe.

" Come now, be decent, can't ye]" said Aunt Chloe ; "an't
yer shamed 1 "

34 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Mas'r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and
declared decidedly that Mose was a " buster." So the maternal
admonition seemed rather to fail of effect.

" Well, ole man," said Aunt Chloe, " you '11 have to tote in
them ar bar'ls."

" Mother's bar'ls is like dat ar widder's, Mas'r George was
reading 'bout, in de good book, — dey never fails," said Mose,
aside to Pete.

" I 'm sure one on 'em caved in last week," said Pete, " and
let 'em all down in de middle of de singin' ; dat ar was failin',
warn't it 1 "

During this aside between Mose and Pete two empty casks
had been rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling,
by stones on each side, boards Avere laid across them, which
arrangement, together with the turning down of certain tubs
and pails, and the disposing of the rickety chairs, at last com-
pleted the preparation.

" Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he '11
stay to read for us," said Aunt Chloe ; " 'pears like 't will be
so much more interestin'."

George very readily consented, for your boy is always ready
for anything that makes him of importance.

The room was soon filled with a mctley assemblage, from tho
old gray-headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and lad
of fifteen. A little harmless gossip ensued on various themes,
such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red head-kerchief,
and how " Missis was a going to give Lizzy that spotted mus-
lin gown, when she 'd got her new berage made up " ; and how
Mas'r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that
was going to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A
few of the worshippers belonged to families hard by, who had
got permission to attend, and who brought in various choice
scraps of information, about the sayings and doings at the
house and 011 the place, which circulated as freely as the same
sort of small change does in higher circles.

After a while the singing commenced, to the evident delight
of all present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intona-
tion could prevent the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs
at once wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the
well-known and common hymns sung in the churches about,
and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, picked up
at camp-meetings.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 35

The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sung
with great energy and unction : —

" Die on the field of battle,
Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul."

Another special favorite had oft repeated the words, —

" O, I 'in going to glory, — won't you come along with me ?
Don't you see the angels beck'ning, and a calling me away ?
Don't you see the golden city and the everlasting day ?"

There were others, which made incessant mention of " Jor-
dan's banks," and " Canaan's fields," and the " New Jerusa-
lem" ; for the negro mind, impassioned and imaginative, al-
ways attaches itself to hymns and expressions of a vivid and
pictorial nature ; and, as they sung, some laughed, and some
cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands rejoicingly
with each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of
the river.

Various exhortations, or relations of experience, followed, and
intermingled with the singing. One old gray-headed woman,
long past work, but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the
past, rose, and leaning on her staff, said, —

" Well, chil'eu ! Well, I 'm mighty glad to hear ye all and
see ye all once more, 'cause I don't know when I '11 be gone to
glory ; but I 've done got ready, cbil'en ; 'pears like I 'd got
my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet on, jest a waitin'
for the stage to come along and take me home ; sometimes, in
the night, I think I hear the wheels a rattlin', and I 'm lookin*
out all the time ; now, you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all,
chiPen," she said, striking her staff hard on the floor, " dat ar
ylory is a mighty thing! It's a mighty thing, chil'en, — you
don'no nothing about it, — it 's ivonderful.1'1 And the old crea-
ture sat down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while
the whole circle struck up, —

" 0, Canaan, bright Canaan,
I 'm bound for the land of Canaan."

Mas'r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revela-
tion, often interrupted by such exclamations as " The sakes
now ! " " Only hear that ! " " Jest think on 't ! " " Is all

that a comin' sure enough

36 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious
things by his mother, finding himself an object of general ad-
miration, threw in expositions of his own, from time to time,
with a commendable seriousness and gravity, for which he was
admired by the young and blessed by the old ; and it was
agreed, on all hands, that " a minister could n't lay it off bette:
than he did " ; that " 't was reely 'mazin' ! "

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters, in the
neighborhood. Having, naturally, an organization in which
the morale was strongly predominant, together with a greater
breadth and cultivation of mind than obtained among his com-
panions, he was looked up to with great respect, as a sort of
minister among them ; and the simple, hearty, sincere style
of his exhortations might have edified even better educated
persons. But it was in prayer that he especially excelled.
Nothing could exceed the touching simplicity, the childlike
earnestness of his prayer, enriched with the language of Scrip-
ture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought itself into his
being, as to have become a part of himself, and to drop from
his lips unconsciously ; in the language of a pious old negro,
he "prayed right up." And so much did his prayer always
work on the devotional feelings of his audiences, that there
seemed often a danger that it would be lost altogether in the
abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere around
him.

While this scene was passing in the cabin of the man, one
quite otherwise passed in the halls of the master.

The trader and Mr. Shelby were seated together in the din-
ing-room aforenamed, at a table covered with papers and writ-
ing utensils.

Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills,
which, as they were counted, he pushed over to the trader, who
counted them likewise.

" All fair," said the trader ; " and now for signing these yer."

Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, anc
signed them, like a man that hurries over some disagreeable
business, and then pushed them over with the money. Haley
produced, from a well-worn valise, a parchment, which, after
looking over it a moment, he handed to Mr. Shelby, who took
it with a gesture of suppressed eagerness.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 37

" Wai, now, the thing 's done ! " said the trader, getting xip.

" It 's done ! " said Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone ; and,
fetching a long breath, he repeated, " It 's done ! "

" Yer don't seem to feel much pleased with it, 'pears to mo,"
said the trader.

" Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " I hope you '11 remember that
you promised, on your honor, you would n't sell Tom, without
knowing what sort of hands he's going into."

" Why, you 've just done it, sir," said the trader.

" Circumstances, you well know, obliged me," said Shelby,'
haughtily.

" Wai, you know, they may 'blige me, too," said the trader.
" Howsomever, I '11 do the very best I can in gettin' Tom a
good berth ; as to my treatin' on him bad, you need n't be a
grain afeard. If there 's anything that I thank the Lord for, it
is that I 'ru never noways cruel."

After the expositions which the trader had previously given
of his humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularly
reassured by these declarations ; but, as they were the best
comfort the case admitted of, he allowed the trader to depart
in silence, and betook himself to a solitary cigar.

38 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANGING

OWNERS.

'R. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment
for the night. He was lounging in a large easy-
! ' chair, looking over some letters that had come in
the afternoon mail, and she was standing before
her mirror, brushing out the complicated braids
and curls in which Eliza had arranged her hair ; for, noticing
her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused her attend-
ance that night, and ordered her to bed. The employment, nat-
urally enough, suggested her conversation with the girl in the
morning ; and, turning to her husband, she said, carelessly, —

" By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you
lugged in to our dinner-table to-day 1 "

"Haley is his name," said Shelby, turning himself rather
uneasily in his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a
letter.

" Haley ! Who is he, and what may be his business here,
pray 7 "

"Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with,
last time I was at Natchez," said Mr. Shelby.

" And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home,
and call and dine here, ay ] "

" Why, I invited him ; I had some accounts with him," said
Shelby.

" Is he a negro-trader 1 " said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a certain
embarrassment in her husband's manner.

" Why, my dear, what put that into your head? " said Shelby,
looking up.

"Nothing, — only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a
great worry, crying and taking on, and said you were talking
with a trader, and that she heard him make an offer for her
boy, — the ridiculous little goose ! "

4< She did, hey 1 " said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

which he seemed for a few moments quite Intent upon, not
perceiving that he was holding it bottom upwards.

" It will have to come out," said he, mentally ; " as well
now as ever."

" I told Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing
her hair, " that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you
never had anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course,
I knew you never meant to sell any of our people, --least of
all, to such a fellow."

" Well, Emily," said her husband, " so I have always felt
and said ; but the fact is that my business lies so that I cannot
get on without. I shall have to sell some of niy hands."

" To that creature ] Impossible ! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be
serious."

" I 'in sorry to say that I am," said Mr. Shelby. " I 've
agreed to sell Tom."

40 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" What ! our Tom ? — that good, faithful creature ! — been
your faithful servant from a boy ! 0, Mr. Shelby ! — and you
have promised him his freedom, too, — you and I have spoken
to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can believe anything
now, - - 1 can believe now that you could sell little Harry, poor
Eliza's only child ! " said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between grief
and indignation.

" Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to
sell Tom and Harry both ; and I don't know why I am to be
rated, as if I were a monster, for doing what every one does
every day."

" But why, of all others, choose these 1 " said Mrs. Shelby.
" Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must sell at all 1 "

" Because they will bring the highest sum of any, — that 's
why. I could choose another, if you say so. The fellow made
me a high bid on Eliza, if that would suit you any better,'
said Mr. Shelby.

" The wretch ! " said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.

" Well, I did n't listen to it, a moment, — out of regard to
your feelings, I would n't ; — so give me some credit."

" My dear," said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, " forgive
ine. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unpre-
pared for this ; — but surely you will allow me to intercede for
these poor creatures. Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow,
if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby, that if he were put
to it, he would lay down his life for you."

'( I know it, -- I dare say ; — but what 's the use of all this 1
— I can't help myself."

" Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice 1 I 'm willing to bear
my part of the inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have tried
• — tried most faithfully, as a Christian woman should — to do
my duty to these poor, simple, dependent creatures. I have
cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and known
all their little cares and joys, for years ; and how can I ever
hold up my head again among them, if, for the sake of a little
paltry gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature
as poor Tom, and tear from him in a moment all we have
taught him to love and value 1 I have taught them the duties
of the family, of parent and child, and husband and wife ; and
how can I bear to have this open acknowledgment that we
care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred, compared
with money 1 I have talked with Eliza about her boy, — her

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 41

duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray
for him, and bring him up in a Christian way ; and now what
can I say, if you tear him away, and sell him, soul and body,
to a profane, unprincipled man, just to save a little money1? 1
have told her that one soul is Avorth more than all the money
in the world ; and how will she believe me when she sees us
turn round and sell her child 1 — sell him, perhaps, to certain
ruin of body and soul ! "

"I'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily, -- indeed I am,"
said Mr. Shelby ; " and I respect your feelings, too, though I
don't pretend to share them to their full extent ; but I tell you
now, solemnly, it 's of no use, - - I can't help myself. I did n't
mean to tell you this, Emily ; but, in plain words, there is no
choice between selling these two and selling everything. Either
they must go, or all must. Haley has come into possession of
a mortgage, which, if I don't clear off Avith him directly, will
take everything before it. I Ve raked, and scraped, and bor-
rowed, and all but begged, — and the price of these two was
needed to make up the balance, and I had to give them up.
Haley fancied the child ; he agreed to settle the matter that
way, and no other. I was in his power, and had to do it. If
you feel so to have them sold, Avould it be any better to have
all sold 1 "

Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to her
toilet, she rested her face in her hands, and gave a sort of groan.

" This is God's curse on slavery ! — a bitter, bitter, most
accursed thing ! — a curse to the master and a curse to the
slave ! I was a fool to think I could make anything good out
of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws
like ours, -- I always felt it was, — I always thought so Avhen
I was a girl, — I thought so still more after I joined the church;
but I thought I could gild it over, — I thought, by kindness,
and care, and instruction, I could make the condition of mine
better than freedom, — fool that I AVHS ! "

" Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite."

" Abolitionist ! if they knew all I know about slavery they
might talk ! We don't need them to tell us ; you know I never
thought that slavery Avas right, — never felt willing to own
slaves."

" Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men,"
said Mr. Shelby. " You remember Mr. B.'s sermon, the other
Sunday?"

42 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" I don't want to hear such sermons ; 1 never wish to heat
Mr. B. in our church again. Ministers can't help the evil,
perhaps, — can't cure it, any more than we can, - - but defend
it ! -- it always went against my common sense. And I think
you did n't think much of that sermon, either."

" Well," said Shelby, " I must say these ministers sometimes
carry matters further than we poor sinners would exactly dare
to do. We men of the world must wink pretty hard at variour
things, and get used to a deal that is n't the exact thing. But
we don't quite fancy, when women and ministers come out
broad and square, and go beyond us in matters of either modesty
or morals, that 's a fact. But now, my dear, I trust you see the
necessity of the thing, and you see that I have done the very
best that circumstances would allow."

" 0 yes, yes ! " said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedly
fingering her gold watch, — "I have n't any jewelry of any
amount," she added, thoughtfully ; "but would not this watch
do something 1 — it was an expensive one when it was bought.
If I could only at least save Eliza's child, I would sacrifice any-
thing I have."

" I 'm sorry, very sorry, Emily," said Mr. Shelby, " I 'm
sorry this takes hold of you so ; but it will do no good. The
fact is, Emily, the thing's done ; the bills of sale are already
signed, and in Haley's hands ; and you must be thankful it is
no worse. That man has had it in his power to ruin us all, —
and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I do, you 'd
think that we had had a narrow escape."

" Is he so hard, then 1 "

" Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather, — a
man alive to nothing but trade and profit, — cool, and unhesi-
tating, and unrelenting, as death and the grave. He 'd sell his
own mother at a good percentage, — not wishing the old woman
any harm, either."

" And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and ElizaV
child ! "

" Well, my dear, the fact is that this goes rather hard with
me ; it 's a thing I hate to think of. Haley wants to drive
matters, and take possession to-morrow. I 'm going to get out
my horse bright and early, and be off. I can't see Tom, that 's
a fact ; and you had better arrange a drive somewhere, and
carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is out of
sischt."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 43

" No, no," said Mrs. Shelby ; " I '11 be in no sense accom-
plice or help in this cruel business. I '11 go and see poor old
Tom, God help him, in his distress ! They shall see, at any
rate, that their mistress can feel for and with them. As to
Eliza, I dare not think about it. The Lord forgive us ! What
have we done, that this cruel necessity should come on us 1 "

There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. and
Mrs. S.helby little suspected.

Communicatiiig with their apartment was a large closet, open-
ing by a door into the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby had
dismissed Eliza for the night, her feverish and excited mind
had suggested the idea of this closet ; and she had hidden her-
self there, and, with her ear pressed close against the crack of
the door, had lost not a word of the conversation.

When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept stealthily
away. Pale, shivering, with rigid features and compressed lips,
she looked an entirely altered being from the soft and timid
creature she had been hitherto. She moved cautiously along
the entry, paused one moment at her mistress's door, and raised
her hands in mute appeal to Heaven, and then turned and
glided into her own room. It was a quiet, neat apartment, on
the same floor with her mistress. There was the pleasant sunny
window, where she had often sat singing at her sewing ; there
a little case of books, and various little fancy articles, ranged
by them, the gifts of Christmas holidays ; there was her simple
wardrobe in the closet and in the drawers : — here was, in short,
her home ; and, on the whole, a happy one it had been to her.
But there, on the bed, lay her slumbering boy, his long curls
falling negligently around his unconscious face, his rosy mouth
half open, his little fat hands thrown out over the bedclothes,
and a smile spread like a sunbeam over his whole face.

" Poor boy ! poor fellow ! " said Eliza ; " they have sold you !
but your mother will save you yet ! "

No tear dropped over that pillow ; in such straits as these
the heart has no tears to give, — it drops only blood, bleeding
itself away in silence. She took a piece of paper and a pencil,
and wrote hastily, -

" O, Missis ! dear Missis ! don't think me ungrateful, — don't
think hard of me, any way, — I heard all you and master said
to-night. I am going to try to save my boy, — you will not
blame me! God bless and reward you for all your kind-
ness ! "

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Hastily folding and directing this, she weut to a drawer and
made up a little package of clothing for her boy, which she
bied with a handkerchief firmly round her waist ; and, so fond
is a mother's remembrance, that, even in the terrors of that hour,
she did not forget to put in the little package one or two of his

favorite toys, reserving a gayly painted parrot to amuse him,
when she should be called on to awaken him. It was some
trouble to arouse the little sleeper ; but, after some effort, he sat
up, and was playing with his bird, while his mother was putting
on her bonnet and shawl.

" Where are you going, mother ] " said he, as she drew near
the bed, with his little coat and cap.

His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes,
that he at once divined that something unusual was the mat-
ter.

" Hush, Harry," she said ; " must n't speak loud, or they will
hear us. A wicked man was coming to take little Harry away
from his mother, and carry him 'way off in the dark ; but
mother won't let him, — she's going to put on her little boy's
cap and coat, and run off with him, so the ugly man can't catch
him."

Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child's
simple outfit, and, taking him in her arms, she whispered to him
to be very still ; and, opening a door in her room which led into
the outer veranda, she glided noiselessly out.

It was a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the mother

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 45

wrapped the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with
vague terror, he clung round her neck.

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of
the porch, rose, with a low growl, as she came near. She
gently spoke his name, and the animal, an old pet and play-
mate of hers, instantly, wagging his tail, prepared to follow
her, though apparently revolving much, in his simple dog's
head, what such an indiscreet midnight promenade might
mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence or impropriety in the
measure seemed to embarrass him considerably ; for he often
stopped, as Eliza glided forward, and looked wistfully, first at
her and then at the house, and then, as if reassured by reflec-
tion, he pattered along after her again. A few minutes brought
them to the window of Uncle Tom's cottage, and Eliza, stop-
ping, tapped lightly on the window-pane.

The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's had, in the order of
hymn-singing, been protracted to a very late hour ; and, as
Uncle Tom had indulged himself in a few lengthy solos after-
wards, the consequence was, that, although it was now between
twelve and one o'clock, he and his worthy helpmeet were not
yet asleep.

"Good Lord! what's that?" said Aunt Chloe, starting up
and hastily drawing the curtain. " My sakes alive, if it an't
Lizy ! Get on your clothes, old man, quick ! — there 's old
Bruno, too, a pawin' round ; what on airth ! I 'm gwine to
open the door."

And, suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and
the light of the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily lighted,
fell on the haggard face and dark, Avild eyes of the fugitive.

" Lord bless you ! — I 'm skeered to look at ye, Lizy ! Are
ye tuck sick, or what 's come over ye 1 "

"I'm running away, — Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe, — car-
rying off my child, — Master sold him ! "

" Sold him 1 " echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay.

"Yes, sold him!" said Eliza, h'rmly ; "I crept into the
closet by Mistress's door to-night, and I heard Master tell
Missis that he had sold my Harry, and you, Uncle Tom, both,
to a trader ; and that he was going off this morning on his
horse, and that the man was to take possession to-day."

Tom had stood, during this speech, Avith his hands raised,
and his eyes dilated, like a man in a dream. Slowly and
gradually, as its meaning came over him, he collapsed, rather

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 47

than seated himself, on his old chair, and sunk his head down
upon his knees.

" The good Lord have pity on us ! " said Aunt Chloe. " 0,
it don't seein as if it was true ! What has he done, that Mas'r
should sell him ? "

"He hasn't done anything, — it isn't for that. Master
don't want to sell ; and Missis, — she 's always good. I heard
her plead and beg for us ; but he told her 't was no use ; that
he was in this man's debt, and that this man had got the
power over him ; and that if he did n't pay him off clear, it
would end in his having to sell the place and all the people,
and move off. Yes, I heard him say there was no choice
between selling these two and selling all, the man was driving
him so hard. Master said he was sorry ; but 0, Missis, -
you ought to have heard her talk ! If she an't a Christian
and an angel, there never was one. I 'm a wicked girl to
leave her so ; but, then, I can't help it. She said, herself, one
soul was worth more than the world ; and this boy has a sou),
and if I let him be carried off, who knows what '11 become of
it1? It must be right; but, if it an't right, the Lord forgive
me, for I can't help doing it ! "

" Well, old man ! " said Aunt Chloe, " why don't you go,
too 1 Will you wait to be toted down river, where they kill
niggers with hard work and starving 1 I 'd a heap rather die
than go there, any day ! There 's time for ye, - - be off with
Lizy, -- you 've got a pass to come and go any Jime. Come,
bustle up, and I '11 get your things together."

Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but
quietly around, and said. —

"]XTo, no, — I an't going. Let Eliza go, — it's her right!
I would n't be the one to say no, - - 't an't in natur for her to
stay ; but you heard what she said ! If I must be sold, or all
the people on the place, and everything go to rack, why, let
me be sold. I s'pose I can b'ar it as well as any on 'em," he
added, while something like a sob and a sigh shook his broad,
rough chest convulsively. "Mas'r always found me on the
spot, — he always will. I never have broke trust, nor used
my pass no ways contrary to my word, and 1 never will. It 's
better for me alone to go, than to break up the place and sell
all. Mas'r an't to blame, Chloe, and he '11 take care of you
and the poor-

Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little woolly

48 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

heads, and broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of
the chair, and covered his face with his large hands. Sobs,
heavy, hoarse, and loud, shook the chair, and great tears fell
through his lingers on the floor : just such tears, sir, as you
dropped into the coffin where lay your hrst-born son ; such
tears, woman, as you shed when you heard the cries of your
dying babe. For, sir, he was a man, — and you are but another
man. And, woman, though dressed in silk and jewels, you
are but a woman, and, in life's great straits and mighty griefs,,
ye feel but one sorrow !

" And now," said Eliza, as she stood in the door, " I saw my
husband only this afternoon, and I little knew then what was
to come. They have pushed him to the very last standing-
place, and he told me, to-day, that he was going to run away.
Do try, if you can, to get word to him. Tell him how I went,
and why I went ; and tell him I 'm going to try and find
Canada. You must give my love to him, and tell him, if I
never see him again," — she turned away, and stood with her
back to them for a moment, and then added, in a husky voice,
" tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meet me in the
kingdom of heaven."

" Call Bruno in there," she added. " Shut the door on him,
poor beast ! He must n't go with me ! "

A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and bless-
ings, and, clasping her wondering and affrighted child ut he*
arms, she glided noiselessly away.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 49

CHAPTER VI.

DISCOVERY.

R. and Mrs. Shelby, after their protracted dis- '
cussion of the night before, did not readily sink
to repose, and, in consequence, slept somewhat
later than usual, the ensuing morning.

" I wonder what keeps Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby,
after giving her bell repeated pulls, to no purpose.

Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharpen-
ing his razor ; and just then the door opened, and a colored
boy entered, with his shaving-water.

" Andy," said his mistress, " step to Eliza's door, and tell her
I have rung for her three times. Poor thing ! " she added to
herself, with a sigh.

Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonishment.

" Lor, Missis ! Lizy's drawers is all open, and her things all
lying every which way ; and I believe she 's just done clared
out ! "

The truth flashed upon Mr. Shelby and his wife at the same
moment. He exclaimed, —

" Then she suspected it, and she 's off ! "

" The Lord be thanked ! " said Mrs. Shelby. " I trust she is."

" Wife, you talk like a fool ! Really, it will be something
pretty awkward for me, if she is. Haley saw that I hesitated
about selling this child, and he '11 think I connived at it, to
get him out of the way. It touches my honor ! " And Mr.
.Shelby left the room hastily.

There was great running and ejaculating, and opening and
shutting of doors, and appearance of faces in all shades of color
In different places, for about a quarter of an hour. One person
only, who might have shed some light on the matter, was
entirely silent, and that was the head cook, Aunt Chloe.
Silently, and with a heavy cloud settled down over her once
joyous face, she proceeded making out her breakfast biscuits,
as if she heard and saw nothing of the excitement around her.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Very soon, about a dozen young imps were roosting, like so
many crows, on the veranda railings, each one determined to
be the first one to apprize the strange Mas'r of his ill luck.

" He '11 be rael mad, I '11 be bound," said Andy.

" Won't he swar ! " said little black Jake.

" Yes, for he does swar," said woolly-headed Mandy. " I
hearn him yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it then,
'cause I got into the closet where Missis keeps the great jugs,
and I hearn every word." And Mandy, who had never in her
life thought of the meaning of a word she had heard, more
than a black cat, now took airs of superior wisdom, and strutted
about, forgetting to state that, though actually coiled up among
the jugs at the time specified, she had been fast asleep all the
time.

When, at last, Haley appeared, booted and spurred, he was
saluted with the bad tidings on every hand. The young imps
on the veranda were not disappointed in their hope of hearing
him " swar," which he did with a fluency and fervency which
delighted them all amazingly, as they ducked and dodged hither
and thither, to be out of the reach of his riding-whip ; and, all
whooping off together, they tumbled, in a pile of immeasurable
giggle, on the withered turf under the veranda, where they
kicked up their heels and shouted to their full satisfaction.

" If I had the little devils ! " muttered Haley, between his
teeth.

" But you han't got 'em, though ! " said Andy, with a tri-
umphant flourish, and making a string of indescribable months

LIFE AMOiS'G THE LOWLY.

at the unfortunate trader's back, when he was fairly beyond
hearing

" I say nc w, Shelby, this yer 's a most extro'rnary business ! "
said Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlor. " It seems thaf
gal 's off. with her young un."

52 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Mi. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present," said Mr. Shelby.

" I beg pardon, ma'am," said Haley, bowing slightly, with
a still lowering brow ; " but still I say, as I said before, this
yer 's a sing'lar report. Is it true, sir ] "

" Sir," said Mr. Shelby, " if you wish to communicate with
ine, you must observe something of the decorum of a gentleman.
Andy, take Mr. Haley's hat and riding-whip. Take a seat, sir.
Yes, sir ; I regret to say that the young woman, excited by
overhearing, or having reported to her, something of this busi-
ness, has taken her child in the night, and made off."

" I did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess," said
Haley.

" Well, sir," said Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round upon
him, " what am I to understand by that remark ] If any man
calls my honor in question, I have but one answer for him."

The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat lower tone
said that " it was plaguy hard on a fellow, that had made a
fair bargain, to be gulled that way."

"Mr. Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " if I did not think you had
some cause for disappointment, I should not have borne from
you the rude and unceremonious style of your entrance into
my parlor this morning. I say thus much, however, since
appearances call for it, that I shall allow of no insinuations
cast upon me, as if I were at all partner to any unfairness in
this matter. Moreover, I shall feel bound to give you every
assistance, in the use of horses, servants, etc., in the recovery
of your property. So, in short, Haley," said he, suddenly
dropping from the tone of dignified coolness to his ordinary
one of easy frankness, " the best way for you is to keep good-
natured and eat some breakfast, and we will then see what is
to be done."

Mrs. Shelby now rose, and said her engagements would pre-
vent her being at the breakfast-table that morning ; and, de-
puting a very respectable mulatto woman to attend to the
gentlemen's coffee at the sideboard, she left the room.

" Old lady don't like your humble servant, over and above/'
said Haley, with an uneasy effort to be very familiar.

" I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with such
freedom," said Mr. Shelby, dryly.

" Beg pardon ; of course, only a joke, you know," said Haley,
forcing a laugh.

" Some jokes are less agreeable than others," rejoined Shelby.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 53

" Devilish free, now I 've signed those papers, cuss him ! "
muttered Haley to himself ; " quite grand, since yesterday ! "

Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion wider
surges of sensation than the report of Tom's fate among his
compeers on the place. It was the topic in every mouth, every-
where ; and nothing was done in the house or in the field, but
to discuss its probable results. Eliza's flight — an unprece-
dented event on the place — was also a great accessory in stim-
ulating the general excitement.

Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being about
three shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place,
was revolving the matter profoundly in all its phases and bear-
ings, with a comprehensiveness of vision and a strict lookout
to his own personal well-being, that would have done credit to
any white patriot in Washington.

" It 's an ill wind dat blows nowhar, — dat ar a fact," said
Sam, sententiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons,
and adroitly substituting a long nail in place of a missing
suspender-button, with which effort of mechanical genius he
seemed highly delighted.

" Yes, it 's an ill wind blows nowhar," he repeated. " Now,
dar, Tom 's down, - - wal, course der 's room for some nigger to
be up, — and why not dis nigger] — dat 's de idee. Tom, a
ridin' round de country, — boots blacked, — pass in his pocket,
— all grand as Cuffee, — who but he 1 Now, why should n't
Sam1? — dat's what I want to know."

"Halloo, Sam, — 0 Sam! Mas'r wants you to cotch Bill
and Jerry," said Andy, cutting short Sam's soliloquy.

" High ! what 's afoot now, young un ? "

" Why, you don't know, I s'pose, that Lizy 's cut stick, and
clared out, with her young un 1 "

" You teach your granny ! " said Sam, with infinite con-
tempt ; " knowed it a heap sight sooner than you did ; this
nigger an't so green, now ! "

" Well, anyhow, Mas'r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up ;
and you and I 's to go with Mas'r Haley, to look arter her."

" Good, now ! dat 's de time o' day ! " said Sam. " It 's Sam
dat 's called for in dese yer times. He 's de nigger. See if I
don't cotch her, now ; Mas'r '11 see what Sam can do ! "

" Ah ! but, Sam," said Andy, " you 'd better think twice ;
for Missis don't want her cotched, and she '11 be in yer wool."

" High ! " said Sam, opening his eyes. " How you know
dat?"

54 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OE,

" Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin', when
I bring in Mas'r's shaving-water. She sent me to see why
Lizy did n't come to dress her ; and when I telled her she was
off, she jest ris up, and ses she, ' The Lord be praised ' ; and
Mas'r, he seemed rael mad, and ses he, ' Wife, you talk like a
fool.' But Lor ! she '11 bring him to ! I knows well enough
how that '11 be, — it 's allers best to stand Missis' side the fence,
now I tell yer."

Black Sam, upon this, scratched his woolly pate, which, if it
did not contain very profound wisdom, still contained a great
deal of a particular species much in demand among politicians
of all complexions and countries, and vulgarly denominated
" knowing which side the bread is buttered " ; so, stopping
with grave consideration, he again gave a hitch to his panta-
loons, which was his regularly organized method of assisting
his mental perplexities.

" Der an't no sayin' - - never — 'bout no kind o' thing in dis
yer world," he said, at last.

Sam spoke like a philosopher, emphasizing this, — as if he
had had a large experience in different sorts of worlds, and
therefore had come to his conclusions advisedly.

" Now, sartin I 'd a said that Missis would a scoured the
varsal world after Lizy," added Sam, thoughtfully.

" So she would," said Andy ; " but can't ye 'see through a
ladder, ye black nigger1? Missis don't want dis yer Mas'i
Haley to get Lizy's boy ; dat 's de go ! "

" High ! " said Sam, with an indescribable intonation, known
only to those who have heard it among the negroes.

" And I 'II tell yer more 'n all," said Andy ; " I spect you 'd
better be making tracks for dem bosses, — mighty sudden, too,
- for ] hearn Missis 'quirin' arter yer, — so you 've stood
foolin' long enough."

Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in real earnest, and
after a while appeared, bearing down gloriously towards the
house, with Bill and Jerry in a full canter, and adroitly throw-
ing himself off before they had any idea of stopping, he brought
them up alongside of the horse-post like a tornado. Haley's
horse, which was a skittish young colt, winced, and bounced,
and pulled hard at his halter.

" Ho, ho ! " said Sam, " skeery, ar ye ? " and his black visage
lighted up with a curious, mischievous gleam. " I '11 fix ye
now ! " said he.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 55

There was a large beech-tree overshadowing the place, and
the small, sharp, triangular beechnuts lay scattered thickly on
the ground. With one of these in his lingers, Sam approached
the colt, stroked and patted, and seemed apparently busy in
soothing his agitation. On pretence of adjusting the saddle, he
adroitly slipped under it the sharp little nut, in such a manner
that the least weight brought upon the saddle would annoy the
nervous sensibilities of the animal, without leaving any percep-
tible graze or wound.

" Dar ! " he said, rolling his eyes with an approving grin ;
"me fix 'em !"

At this moment Mrs. Shelby appeared on the balcony, beck-
oning to him. Sam approached with as good a determination
to pay court as did ever suitor after a vacant place at St. James's
or Washington.

" Why have you been loitering so, Sam 1 I sent Andy to
tell you to hurry."

"Lord bless you, Missis!" said Sam, "horses won't b«
cotched all in a minnit ; they 'd done clared out way down to
the south pasture, and the Lord knows whar ! "

" Sam, how often must I tell you not to say ' Lord bless you,
and the Lord knows,' and such things] It 's wicked."

"O, Lord bless my soul! I done forgot, Missis! I won't
eay nothing of de sort no more."

" Why, Sam, you just have said it again."

" Did 1 1 0, Lord ! I mean, - - I did n't go far to say it."

" You must be careful, Sam."

" Just let me get my breath, Missis, and I '11 start fair. I '11
be berry careful."

" Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him the
road, and help him. Be careful of the horses, Sam ; you know
Jerry was a little lame last week ; don't ride them too fast."

Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, and
strong emphasis.

" Let dis child alone for dat ! " said Sam, rolling up his eyes
with a volume of meaning. " Lord knows ! High ! Did n't
say dat ! " said he, suddenly catching his breath, with a ludi-
crous flourish of apprehension, which made his mistress laugh,
spite of herself. " Yes, Missis, I '11 look out for de bosses ! "

"Now, Andy," said Sam, returning to his stand under the
beech-trees, " yon see I would n't be 't all surprised if dat ar
gen'lman's crittur should gib a fling, by and by, when he comes

Ob UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

to "be a gettin' up. You know, Andy, critturs will do such
things " ; and therewith Sam poked Andy in the side, in a
highly suggestive manner.

" High ! " said Andy, with an air of instant appreciation.

"Yes, you see, Andy, Missis wants to make time, — dat ar's
clar to der most or'nary 'bserver. I jis make a little for her.
Now, you see, get all dese yer bosses loose, caperin' permiscus
round dis yer lot and down to de wood dar, and I spec Mas'r
I'D be off in a hurry."

Andy grinned.

" Yer see," said Sam, " yer see, Andy, if any such thing
should happen as that Mas'r Haley's horse should begin to act
contrary, and cut up, you and I jist lets go of our'n to help
him. and we'll help him, — 0 yes!" And Sam and Andy
laid their heads back on their shoulders, and broke into a low.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

immoderate laugh, snapping their fingers and flourishing their
heels with exquisite delight.

At this instant, Haley appeared on the veranda. Some-
what mollified by certain cups of very good coffee, he came out
smiling and talking, in tolerably restored humor. Sam and
Andy, clawing for certain fragmentary palm-leaves, which they
were in the habit of considering as hats, flew to the horse-posts,
to be ready to " help Mas'r."

Sam's palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from all
pretensions to braid, as respects its brim ; and the slivers start-
ing apart, and standing upright, gave it a blazing air of free-
dom and defiance, quite equal to that of any Fejee chief ; while
the whole brim of Andy's being departed bodily, he rapped the
crown on his head with a dexterous thump, and looked about
well pleased, as if to say, " Who says I have n't got a hat ] "

" Well, boys," said Haley, " look alive now ; we must lose
no time."

" Not a bit of him, Mas'r ! " said Sam, putting Haley's rein
in his hand, and holding his stirrup, while Andy was untying
the other two horses.

The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome crea-
ture bounded from the earth with a sudden spring, that threw

58 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

his master sprawling, some feet off, on the soft, dry turf. Sam,
with frantic ejaculations, made a dive at the reins, but only
succeeded in brushing the blazing palm-leaf aforenamed into
the horse's eyes, which by no means tended to allay the confu-
sion of his nerves. So, with great vehemence, he overturned
Sam, and, giving two or three contemptuous snorts, nourished
his heels vigorously in the air, and was soon prancing away
towards the lower end of the lawn, followed by Bill and Jerry,
whom Andy had not failed to let loose, according to contract,
speeding them off with various direful ejaculations. And now
ensued a miscellaneous scene of confusion. Sam and Andy ran
and shouted, — dogs barked here and there, — and Mike, Mose,
Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller specimens on the place,
both male and female, raced, clapped hands, whooped, and
shouted, with outrageous ofhciousness and untiring zeal.

Haley's horse, which was a white one, and very fleet and
spirited, appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene with
great gusto ; and having for his coursing ground a lawn of
nearly half a mile in extent, gently sloping down on every side
into indefinite woodland, he appeared to take infinite delight
in seeing how near he could allow his pursuers to approach
him, and then, when within a hand's breadth, whisk off with a
start and a snort, like a mischievous beast as he was, and career
far down into some alley of the wood-lot. Nothing was fur-
ther from Sam's mind than to have any one of the troop taken
until such season as should seem to him most befitting, — and
the exertions that he made were certainly most heroic. Like
the sword of Co3iir de Lion, which always blazed in the front
and thickest of the battle, Sam's palm -leaf was to be seen every-
where when there was the least danger that a horse could be
caught ; — there he would bear down full tilt, shouting, " Now
for it ! cotch him ! cotch him ! " in a way that would set every-
thing to indiscriminate rout in a moment.

Haley ran up and down, and cursed and swore and stamped
miscellaneously. Mr. Shelby in vain tried to shout directions
from the balcony, and Mrs. Shelby from her chamber window
alternately laughed and wondered, - - not without some inkling
of what lay at the bottom of all this confusion.

At last, about twelve o'clock, Sam appeared triumphant,
mounted on Jerry, with Haley's horse by his side, reeking with
sweat, but with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, showing that
the spirit of freedom had not yet entirely subsided.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 59

" He 's cotchecl ! " he exclaimed triumphantly. " If 't had n't
been for me, they might a bust theirselves, all on 'em ; but I
eotched him ! "

" You ! " growled Haley, in no amiable mood. " If it had n't
been for you, this never would have happened."

"Lord bless us, Mas'r," said Sam, in a tone of the deepest
concern, " and me that has been racin' and chasin' till the sweat
jest pours off me ! "

" Well, well ! " said Haley, " you 've lost me near three
hours, with your cursed nonsense. Now let 's be off, and have
no more fooling."

" Why, Mas'r," said Sam, in a deprecating tone, " I believe
you mean to kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we are all
just ready to drop down, and the critturs all in a reek of sweat.
Why, Mas'r won't think of startin' on now till arter dinner.
Mas'r's hoss wants rubben' down; see how he splashed hisself ;
and Jerry limps too ; don't think Missis would be willin' to
have us start dis yer way, no how. Lord bless you, Mas'r, we
can ketch up, if we do stop. Lizy never was no great of a
walker."

Mrs. Shelby, who, greatly to her amusement, had overheard
this conversation from the veranda, now resolved to do her
part. She came forward, and, courteously expressing her con-
cern for Haley's accident, pressed him to stay to dinner, saying
that the cook should bring it on the table immediately.

Thus, all things considered, Haley, with rather an equivocal
grace, proceeded to the parlor, while Sain, rolling his eyes after
him with unutterable meaning, proceeded gravely with the
horses to the stable-yard.

" Did yer see him, Andy ? did yer see him ? " said Sam,
•when he had got fairly beyond the shelter of the barn, and
fastened the horse to a post. " 0, Lor, if it warn't as good as
a nieetin', now, to see him a dancin' and kickiri' and swarin' at
us. Did n't I hear him "? Swar away, ole fellow (says I to
myself ) ; will yer have yer hoss now, or wait till you cotch
him1? (says I). Lor, Andy, I think I can see him now." And
Sam and Andy leaned up against the barn, and laughed to
their hearts' content.

" Yer oughter seen how mad he looked, when I brought the
hoss up. Lord, he 'd a killed me, if he durs' to ; and there I
was a standin' as innercent and as humble."

" Lor, I seed you," said Andy ; " an't you an old hoss, Sam ? "

60 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Eather spects I am," said Sam ; " did yer see Missis up
stars at the winder ? I seed her laughin'."

" I 'm sure, I was racin' so, I did n't see nothing," said
Andy.

" Well, yer see," said Sam, proceeding gravely to wash down
Haley's pony, " I 'se 'quired what yer may call a habit o' bob-
servation, Andy. It 's a very 'portant habit, Andy, and I 'com-
mend yer to be cultivatin' it, now yer young. Hist up that hind
foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy, it 's bobservation makes all de dif-
ference in niggers. Did n't I see which way the wind blew dis
yer mornin' 1 Did n't I see what Missis wanted, though she
never let on ? Dat ar 's bobservation, Andy. I spects it 's
what you may call a faculty. Faculties is different in different
peoples, but cultivation of 'em goes a great way."

" I guess if I had n't helped your bobservation dis mornin',
yer would n't have seen your way so smart," said Andy.

" Andy," said Sam, " you 's a promisin' child, der an't no
manner o' doubt. I think lots of yer, Andy ; and I don't feel
no ways ashamed to take idees from you. We oughtenter
overlook nobody, Andy, cause the smartest on us gets tripped
up sometimes. And so, Andy, let 's go up to the house now.
I '11 be boun' Missis '11 give us an uncommon good bite, dis yer
time."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 61

CHAPTER VII.

THE MOTHER'S STRUGGLE.

is impossible to conceive of a human creature
more wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza, when
she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom's cabin.

Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the
danger of her child, all blended in her mind, with
a confused and stunning sense of the risk she was running, in
leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting loose
from the protection of a friend whom she loved and revered.
Then there was the parting from every familiar object, -- the
place where she had grown up, the trees under which she had
played, the groves where she had walked many an evening in
happier days, by the side of her young husband, — everything,
as it lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak reproach-
fully to her, and ask her whither could she go from a home like
that]

But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a par-
oxysm of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her
boy was old enough to have walked by her side, and, in an
indifferent case, she would only have led him by the hand ;
but now the bare thought of putting him out of her arms made
her shudder, and she strained him to her bosom with a convul-
sive grasp, as she went rapidly forward.

The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trem-
bled at the sound ; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow
sent the blood backward to her heart, and quickened her foot-
steps. She wondered within herself at the strength that
seemed to be come upon her ; for she felt the weight of her
boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed
to increase the supernatural power that bore her on, while from
her pale lips burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, the prayer to
a Friend above, — " Lord, help ! Lord, save me ! "

If it were your Harry, m other, or your Willie, that were

62 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morn-
ing, — if you had seen the man, and heard that the papers
were signed and delivered, and you had only from twelve
o'clock till morning to make good your escape, — how fast
could 3/0 ?/ walk"? How many miles could you make in those
few brief hours, with the darling at your bosom, — the little
sleepy head on your shoulder, — the small, soft arms trustingly
holding on to your neck?

For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept
him waking ; but his mother so hurriedly repressed every
breath or sound, and so assured him that if he were only still
she would certainly save him, that he clung quietly round her
neck, only asking, as he found himself sinking to sleep, -

" Mother, I don't need to keep awake, do 1 1 "

" No, my darling ; sleep, if you want to."

"But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won't let him get
me?"

" No ! so may God help me ! " said his mother, with a paler
cheek, and a brighter light in her large dark eyes.

" You 're sure, an't you, mother ] "

"Yes, sure /" said the mother, in a voice that startled her-
self ; for it seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that
was no part of her ; and the boy dropped his little weary head
on her shoulder, and was soon asleep. How the touch of those
warm arms, the gentle breathings that came in her neck, seemed
to add lire and spirit to her movements ! It seemed to her
as if strength poured into her in electric streams, from every
gentle touch and movement of the sleeping, confiding child.
Sublime is the dominion of the mind over the body, that, for
a time, can make flesh and nerve impregnable, and string the
sinews like steel, so that the weak become so mighty.

The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed
by her dizzily, as she walked on ; and still she went, leaving
one familiar object after another, slacking not, pausing not, till
reddening daylight fcrand her many a long mile from all traces
of any familiar objects upon the open highway.

She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connec-
tions, in the little village of T- — , not far from the Ohio river,
and knew the road well. To go thither, to escape across the
Ohio river, were the first hurried outlines of her plan of escape j
beyond that, she could only hope in God.

When horses and vehicles began to move along the high-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

way, with that alert perception peculiar to a state of excite-
ment, and which seems to be a sort of inspiration, she became
aware that her headlong pace and distracted air might bring on
her remark and suspicion. She therefore put the boy on the
ground, and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she walked on at
as rapid a pace as she thought consistent with the preservation
of appearances. In her little bundle she had provided a store
of cakes and apples, which she used as expedients for quick-
ening the speed of the child, rolling the apple some yards
before them, when the boy would run with all his might after
it ; and this ruse, often repeated, carried them over many a
half-mile.

After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland,
through which murmured a clear brook. As the child com-

plained of hunger and thirst, she climbed over the fence with
him ; and, sitting down behind a large rock which concealed
them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out of her littla

64 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not
3at ; and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to
wedge some of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that
the rising in her throat would choke her.

" No, no, Harry darling ! mother can't eat till you are safe !
We must go on, — on, — -till we come to the river ! " And she
hurried again into the road, and again constrained herself to
walk regularly and composedly forward.

She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was
personally known. If she should chance to meet any who
knew her, she reflected that the well-known kindness of the
family would be of itself a blind to suspicion, as making it an
unlikely supposition that she could be a fugitive. As she was
also so white as not to be known as of colored lineage, without
a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was much
easier for her to pass on unsuspected.

On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farm-
house, to rest herself, and buy some dinner for her child and
self; for, as the danger decreased with the distance, the super-
natural tension of the nervous system lessened, and she found
herself both weary and hungry.

The good woman, kindly and gossiping, seemed rather
pleased than otherwise with having somebody come in to talk
with ; and accepted, without examination, Eliza's statement,
that she " was going on a little piece, to spend a week with
her friends," — all which she hoped in her heart might prove
strictly true.

An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T , by

the Ohio river, weary and footsore, but still strong in heart.
Her first glance was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, be-
tween her and the Canaan of liberty on the other side.

It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and tur-
bulent ; great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and
fro in the turbid waters. Owing to the peculiar form of the
shore on the Kentucky side, the land bending far out into the
water, the ice had been lodged and detained in great quantities,
and the narrow channel which swept round the bend was full
of ice, piled one cake over another, thus forming a temporary
barrier to the descending ice, which lodged, and formed a great,
undulating raft, filling up the whole river, and extending almost
to the Kentucky shore.

Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorable

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. G5

aspect of things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual
ferry-boat from running, and then turned into a small public
house on the bank, to make a few inquiries.

The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing
operations over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal,
stopped, with a fork in her hand, as Eliza's sweet and plain-
tive voice arrested her.

" What is it ] " she said.

"Isn't there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to
B , now 1 " she said.

" No, indeed ! " said the woman ; " the boats has stopped

runnm""

Eliza's look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman,
and she said, inquiringly, -

" May be you 're wanting to get over 1 — anybody sick ]
Ye seem mighty anxious 1 "

" I 've got a child that's very dangerous," said Eliza. "I
never heard of it till last night, and I 've walked quite a piece
to-day, in hopes to get to the ferry."

" Well, now, that 's onlucky," said the woman, whose moth-
erly sympathies were much aroused ; " 1 'm re'lly consarned
for ye. Solomon ! " she called, from the window, towards a
small back building. A man, in leather apron and very dirty
hands, appeared at the door.

" I say, Sol," said the woman, " is that ar man going to tote
them bar'ls over to-night ] "

" He said he should try, if 't was any way prudent," said
the man.

" There 's a man a piece down here, that 's going over with
some truck this evening, if he durs' to ; he '11 be in here to sup-
per to-night, so you 'd better set down and wait. That 's a
sweet little fellow," added the woman, ottering him a cake.

But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.

" Poor fellow ! he is n't used to walking, and I 've hurried
him on so," said Eliza.

" Well, take him into this room," said the woman, opening
into a small bedroom, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza
laid the weary boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till ht
was fast asleep. For her there was no rest. As a fire in her
bones, the thought of the pursuer urged her on ; and she gazed
with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay between
her and liberty.

66 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow
the course of her pursuers.

Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should
be hurried on table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often
been seen before, that it required more than one to make a
bargain. So, although the order was fairly given out in Haley's
hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe by at least half a dozen
juvenile messengers, that dignitary only gave certain very gruff
snorts, and tosses of her head, and went on with every opera-
tion in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner.

For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among
the servants generally that Missis would not be particularly
disobliged by delay ; and it was wonderful what a number of
counter accidents occurred constantly, to retard the course of
things. One luckless wight contrived to upset the gravy ; and
then gravy had to be got up de novo, with due care and for-
mality, Aunt Chloe watching and stirring with dogged pre-
cision, answering shortly, to all suggestions of haste, that she
" warn't a going to have raw gravy on the table, to help
nobody's catchings." One tumbled down with the water, and
had to go to the spring for more ; and another precipitated the
butter into the path of events ; and there was from time to
time giggling news brought into the kitchen that " Mas'r Haley
was mighty oneasy, and that he could n't sit in his cheer no
ways, but was a walkin' and stalkin' to the winders and through
the porch."

" Sarves him right ! " said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. " He '11
get wus nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't mend his
ways. His master '11 be sending for him, and then see how
he '11 look ! "

" He '11 go to torment, and no mistake," said little Jake.

" He desarves it ! " said Aunt Chloe, grimly ; " he 's broke
a many, many, many hearts, - - 1 tell ye all ! " she said, stop-
ping, with a fork uplifted in her hands ; " it 's like what Mas']1
George reads in Eavelations, — souls a callin' under the altar !
and a callin' on the Lord for vengeance on sich ! — and by and
by the Lord he '11 hear 'em, — so he Avill ! "

Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was lis-
tened to with open mouth ; and, the dinner being now fairly
sent in, the whole kitchen was at leisure to gossip with her,
and to listen to her remarks.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 67

" Sich '11 be burnt up forever, aud uo mistake ; won't ther? "
said Andy.

" I 'd be glad to see it, I '11 be boun'," said little Jake.

" Chil'en ! " said a voice, that made them all start. It was
Uncle Tom, who had come in, and stood listening to the con-
versation at the door.

''Chil'en!" he said, "I'm afeard you don't know what
ye 're sayin'. Forever is a dre'ful word, chil'en ; it 's awful
to think on 't. You oughtenter wish that ar to any human
crittur."

"We would n't to anybody but the soul-drivers," said
Andy ; "nobody can help wishing it to them, they 's so awful
wicked."

" Don't natur herself kinder cry out on 'em ? " said Aunt
Chloe. " Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his moth-
er's breast, and sell him, and der little children as is crying
and holding on by her clothes, — don't dey pull 'em off and
sells 'em 1 Don't dey tear wife and husband apart 1 " said
Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, " when it 's jest takin' the very
life on 'em 1 — and all the while does they feel one bit, — don't
dey drink and smoke, and take it oncommoii easy 1 Lor', if
the devil don't get them, what 's he good for 1 " And Aunt
Chloe covered her face with her checked apron, and began to
sob in good earnest.

"Pray for them that 'spitefully use you, the good book
says," says Tom.

"Pray for 'em!" said Aunt Chloe; "Lor, it 's too tough !
I can't pray for 'em."

" It 's natur, Chloe, and natur 's strong," said Tom, " but
the Lord's grace is stronger ; besides, you oughter think what
an awful state a poor crittur's soul 's in that '11 do them ar
things, — you oughter thank God that you an't like him,
Chloe. I 'm sure I 'd rather be sold, ten thousand times
over, than to have all that ar poor crittur 's got to answer
for."

" So 'd I, a heap," said Jake. "Lor, should n't we cotch it,
Andy 1 "

Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent
whistle.

"I 'in glad Mas'r did n't go off this morning, as he looked
to," said Tom; "that ar hurt me more than sellin', it did.
Mebbe it might have been natural for him, but 't would have

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

come desp't hard on me, as has known him from a baby ; but
I 've seen Mas'r, and I begin ter feel sort o' reconciled to the
Lord's will now. Mas'r couldn't help hisself; he did right,
but I 'm feared things will be kinder goin' to rack, when 1 'm
gone. Mas'r can't be spected to be a pryin' round every whar
as I 've done, a keepin' up all the ends. The boys all means
well, but they 's powerful earless. That ar troubles me."
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.

" Tom," said his master, kindly, " I want you to notice that
I give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you
are not on the spot when he wants you ; he 's going to-day to
look after his other business, and you can have the day to your-
self. Go anywhere you like, boy."

" Thank you, Mas'r,'' said Tom.

" And mind yerself," said the trader, " and don't come it
over your master with any o' yer nigger tricks ; for I '11 take
every cent out of him, if you an't thar. If he M hear to me,
he would n't trust any on ye, — slippery as eels ! "

" Mas'r," said Tom, — and he stood very straight, -- " I was
jist eight years old when ole Missis put you into my arms, and

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 69

you was n't a year old. ' Thar,' says she, ' Tom, that 's to be
your young Mas'r ; take good care on him,' says she. And
now I jist ask you, Mas'r, have I ever broke word to you, or
gone contrary to you, 'specially since I was a Christian 1 "

Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.

" My good boy," said he, "the Lord knows you say but the
truth ; and if I was able to help it, all the world should n't
buy you."

" And sure as I am a Christian woman," said Mrs. Shelby,
" you shall be redeemed as soon as I can any way bring to-
gether means. Sir," she said to Haley, "take good account of
whom you sell him to, and let me know."

" Lor, yes, for that matter," said the trader, " I may bring
him up in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him
back."

" I '11 trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,"
said Mrs. Shelby.

" Of course," said the trader, " all 's equal with me ; li'ves
trade 'em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want
is a livin', you know, ma'am ; that 's all any on us wants, I
s'pose."

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the
familiar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute
necessity of putting a constraint on their feelings. The more
hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the greater be-
came Mrs. Shelby's dread of his succeeding in recapturing Eliza
and her child, and of course the greater her motive for detain-
ing him by every female artifice. She therefore graciously
smiled, assented, chatted familiarly, and did all she could to
make time pass imperceptibly.

At two o'clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the
posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scam-
per of the morning.

Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of
zealous and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was
boasting, in flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and emi-
nent success of the operation, now that he had "farly come to it."

"Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs," said Haley,
thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount.

" Heaps on 'em," said Sam, triumphantly ; " thar 's Bruno,
— he 's a roarer ! and, besides that, 'bout every nigger of us
keeps a pup of some natur or uther."

70 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Poll ! " said Haley, — and he said something else, too, with
regard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered, —

" I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way."

" But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know
he don't) for trackin' out niggers."

Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of
earnest and desperate simplicity.

" Our dogs all smells round consid'able sharp. I spect they V
the kind, though they han't never had no practice. They 's
far dogs, though, at most anything, if you 'd get 'em started.
Here, Bruno," he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfound-
land, who came pitching tumultuously toward them.

" You go hang ! " said Haley, getting up. " Come, tumble
up now."

Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle
Andy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a
laugh, greatly to Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him
with his riding-whip.

" I 's 'stonished at yer, Andy," said Sam, with awful gravity.
" This yer 's a seris bisness, Andy. Yer must n't be a makin'
game. This yer an't no way to help Mas'r."

" I shall take the straight road to the river," said Haley,
decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate.
" I know the way of all of 'em, — they makes tracks for the
underground."

" Sartin," said Sam, " dat 's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits de
thing right in de middle. Now, der 's two roads to de river,
— de dirt road and der pike, — which Mas'r mean to take 1 "

Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this
new geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said by
a vehement reiteration.

" 'Cause," said Sam, " I 'd rather be 'clined to 'magine that
Lizy 'd take de dirt road, bein' it 's the least travelled."

Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and nat-
urally inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up
by this view of the case.

" If yer warn't both on yer such cussed liars, now ! " he said,
contemplatively, as he pondered a moment.

The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken ap
peared to amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind,
and shook so as apparently to run a great risk of falling off his
horse, while Sam's face was immovably composed into the moat
doleful gravity.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 71

" Course," said Sam, " Mas'r can do as he 'd ruther ; go de
straight road, if Mas'r thinks best, — it 's all one to us. Now,
when I study 'pon it, I think de straight road de best, derid-
edly."

" She would naturally go a lonesome way," said Haley,
thinking aloud, and not minding Sam's remark.

"Dar an't no sayin'," said Sam; "gals is pecular ; they
never does nothiu' ye thinks they will ; mose gen'lly the con-
trar. Gals is nat'lly made contrary ; and so, if you thinks
they 've gone one road, it is sartin you 'd better go t' other,
and then you '11 be sure to find 'em. Now, my private 'pinion
is, Lizy took der dirt road ; so I think we 'd better take de
straight one."

This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem
to dispose Haley particularly to the straight road ; and he an-
nounced decidedly that he should go the other, and asked Sam
when they should come to it.

"A little piece ahead." said Sam, giving a wink to Andy
with the eye which was on Andy's side of the head ; and he
added, gravely, "but I 'vc studded on de matter, and I 'in quite
clar we ought not to go dat ar way. I nebber been over it no
way. It 's despit lonesome, and we might lose our way, —
whar we 'd come to, de Lord only knows."

" Nevertheless," said Haley, " I shall go that way."

" Now I think on 't, I think I liearn 'em tell that dat ar
road was all fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an't
it, Andy?"

Andy was n't certain ; he 'd only " hearn tell " about that
road, but never been over it. In short, he was strictly non-
committal.

Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities be-
tween lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in
favor of the dirt road aforesaid. The mention of the thing he
thought he perceived was involuntary on Sam's part at first,
and his confused attempts to dissuade him he set down to a
desperate lying on second thoughts, as being unwilling to im-
plicate Eliza.

When, therefore. Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged
briskly into it, followed by Sam and Andy.

Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly
been a thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many
years after the laying of the new pike. It was open for about

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

an hour's ride, and after that it was cut across by various farms
and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly well, - - indeed, the
road had been so long closed up, that Andy had never heard of
it. He therefore rode along with an air of dutiful submission,
only groaning and vociferating occasionally that 't was '' desp't
rough, arid bad for Jerry's foot."

" Now, I jest give yer warning," said Haley, " I know yer ;
yer won't get ine to turn off this yer road, with all yer fussin',
- so you shet up ! "

" Mas'r will go his own way ! " said Sam, with rueful sub-
mission, at the same time winking most portentously to Andy,
whose delight was now very near the explosive point.

Sam was in wonderful spirits, — professed to keep a very
brisk lookout, — at one time exclaiming that he saw " a gal's
bonnet " on the top of some distant eminence, or calling to
Andy " if that thar was n't ' Lizy ' down in the hollow " ; al-
ways making these exclamations in some rough or craggy part

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 73

of the road, where the sudden quickening of speed was a special
inconvenience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping Haley
in a state of constant commotion.

After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party
made a precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barnyard
belonging to a large farming establishment. Not a soul was in
sight, all the hands being employed in the fields ; but, as the
barn stood conspicuously and plainly square across the road, it
was evident that their journey in that direction had reached a
decided finale.

" Warn't dat ar what I telled Mas'r1? " said Sam, with an air
of injured innocence. " How does strange gentleman spect to
know more about a country dan de natives born and raised ] "

" You rascal ! " said Haley, " you knew all about this."

" Did n't I tell yer I knowd, and yer would n't believe me 1
I telled Mas'r 't was all shet up, and fenced up, and I did n't
spect we could get through, — Andy heard me."

It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had
to pocket his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all
three faced to the right about, and took up their line of march
for the highway.

In consequence of all the various delays, it was about three
quarters of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in
the village tavern that the party came riding into the same
place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking out in
another direction, when Sam's quick eye caught a glimpse of
her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis,
Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud
and characteristic ejaculation, which startled her at once ; she
drew suddenly back ; the whole train swept by the window,
round to the front door.

A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one
moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the
river. She caught her child, and sprang down the steps
towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her, just as
she was disappearing down the bank ; and throwing himself
from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was
after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment
her feet to her scarce seemed to touch the ground, and a
moment brought her to the water's edge. Right on behind
they came ; and, nerved with strength such as God gives only
to the desperate, with one wild crv and flying leap, she vaulted

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" With one wild cry ind flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the turbid current

by the shore."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 75

sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of ice
beyond. It was a desperate leap, — impossible to anything
but madness and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy in-
stinctively cried out, and lifted up their hands, as she did it.

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted
pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she stayed
there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate energy
she leaped to another and still another cake ; — stumbling, -
leaping, — slipping, — springing upwards again ! Her shoe?
are gone, — her stockings cut from her feet, --while blood
marked every step ; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till
dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side, and a man
helping her up the bank.

" Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar ! " said the man, with
an oath.

Eliza recognized the voice and face of a man who owned a
farm not far from her old home.

"0, Mr. Symmes ! - - save me, — do save me, — do hide
me ! " said Eliza.

" Why, what 's this 1 " said the man. " Why, if 't an't Shel-
by's gal ! "

"My child! --this boy! --he'd sold him! There is his
Mas'r," said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. " 0, Mr.
Symmes, you 've got a little boy ! "

" So I have," said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew
her up the steep bank. " Besides, you 're a right brave gal.
I like grit, wherever I see it."

When they had gained the top of the bank, the man
paused. " I 'd be glad to do something for ye," said he ; " but
then there 's nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is to
tell ye to go thar," said he, pointing to a large white house
which stood by itself, off the main street of the village. " Go
thar ; they 're kind folks. Thar 's no kind o' danger but
they'll help you, — they 're up to all that sort o' thing."

" The Lord bless you ! " said Eliza, earnestly.

" No 'easion, no 'casion in the world," said the man. " What
I 've done 's of no 'count."

" And, O, surely, sir, you won't tell any one ! "
"Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for?
In course not," said the man. " Come, now, go along like a
likely, sensible gal, as you are. You 've arnt your liberty, and
you shall have it, for all me."

76 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked
firmly and swiftly away. The man stood and looked after
her.

" Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neigh-
borly thing in the world ; but what 's a feller to do 1 If he
catches one of my gals in the same fix, he 's welcome to pay
back. Somehow I never could see no kind o' crittur a strivin'
and pan tin', and trying to clar theirselves, with the dogs arte:
'em, and go agin 'em. Besides, I don't see no kind of 'casion
for me to be hunter and catcher for other folks, neither."

So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not
been instructed in his constitutional relations, and consequently
was betrayed into acting in a sort of Christianized manner,
which, if he had been better situated and more enlightened,
he would not have been left to do.

Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene,
till Eliza had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank,
inquiring look on Sam and Andy.

" That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business," said Sam.

" The gal 's got seven devils in her, I believe ! " said Haley
" How like a wildcat she jumped ! "

" Wai, now," said Sam, scratching his head, " I hope Mas'r
'11 scuse us tryin' dat ar road. Don't think I feel spry enough
for dat ar, no way ! " and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.

" Yon laugh ! " said th'e trader, with a growl.

" Lord bless you, Mas'r, I could n't help it, now," said Sara,
giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. " She
looked so curi's, a leapin' and springin' - - ice a crackin' — and
only to hear her, — plump ! ker chunk ! ker splash ! Spring !
Lord ! how she goes it ! " and Sam and Andy laughed till the
tears rolled down their cheeks.

" I '11 make yer laugh t' other side yer mouths ! " said the
trader, laying about their heads with his riding-whip.

Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on
their horses before he was up.

" Good evening, Mas'r ! " said Sam, Avith much gravity. " I
berry much spect Missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley
won't want us no longer. Missis would n't hear of our ridin'
the critturs over Lizy's bridge to-night " ; and, with a facetious
poke into Andy's ribs, he started off, followed by the latter, at
full speed, — their shouts of laughter coming faintly on the
wind.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 77

CHAPTEE VIII.

ELIZA'S ESCAPE.

LIZA made her desperate retreat across the river
just in the dusk of twilight. The gray mist of
evening, rising slowly from the river, enveloped
her as she disappeared up the bank, and the swollen
current and floundering masses of ice presented a
hopeless barrier between her and her pursuer. Haley therefore
slowly and discontentedly returned to the little tavern, to ponder
further what was to be done. The woman opened to him the
door of a little parlor, covered with a rag carpet, where stood
a table with a very shining black oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-
backed wood chairs, with some plaster images in resplendent
colors on the mantel-shelf, above a very dimly smoking grate ;
a long hard-wood settle extended its uneasy length by the
chimney, and here Haley sat him down to meditate on the in-
stability of human hopes and happiness in general.

" What did I want with the little cuss, now," he said to
himself, " that I should have got myself treed like a coon, as
I am, this yer way 1 " and Haley relieved himself by repeating
over a not very select litany of imprecations on himself, which,
though there was the best possible reason to consider them as
true, we shall, as a matter of taste, omit.

He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a man
who was apparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to
the window.

" By the land ! if this yer an't the nearest, now, to what
I 've heard folks call Providence," said Haley. " I do b'lieve
that ar 's Tom Loker."

Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corner of
the room, was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in height,
and broad in proportion. He was dressed in a coat of buffalo-
skin, made with the hair outward, wlii-h gave him a shaggy
and fie'rce appearance, perfectly in keeping with the whole air

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OE,

of his physiognomy. In the head and face every organ and
lineament expressive of brutal and unhesitating violence was in
a state of the highest possible development. Indeed, could our
readers fancy a bull-dog come unto man's estate, and walking
about in a hat and coat, they would have no unapt idea of the
general style and effect of his physique. He was accompanied
by a travelling companion, in many respects an exact contrast
to himself. He was short and slender, lithe and catlike in his
motions, and had a peering, mousing expression about his keen
black eyes, with which every feature of his face seemed sharp-
ened into sympathy ; his thin, long nose ran out as if it was
eager to bore into the nature of things in general ; his sleek,
thin, black hair was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motions
and evolutions expressed a dry, cautious acuteness. The great
big man poured out a big tumbler half full of raw spirits, and
gulped it down without a word. The little man stood tiptoe,

and putting his head first to one side and then to the other,
and snuffing considerately in the directions of the various bottles,
ordered at last a mint julep, in a thin, and quivering voice, ami

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 79

with an air of great circumspection. When poured out, he took
it and looked at it with a sharp, complacent air, like a man who
thinks he has done about the right thing, and hit the nail on
the head, and proceeded to dispose of it in short and well-
advised sips.

" Wai, now, who 'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come to me ?
Why, Loker, how are ye ? " said Haley, corning forward, and
'xtending his hand to the big man.

" The devil ! " was the civil reply. " What brought you
here, Haley 1 "

The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly
stopped his sipping, and, poking his head forward, looked
shrewdly on the new acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks
at a moving dry leaf, or some other possible object of pursuit.

" I say, Tom, this yer 's the luckiest thing in the world.
I 'm in a devil of a hobble, and you must help me out."

" Ugh ? aw ! like enough ! " grunted his complacent ac-
quaintance. "A body may be pretty sure of that, when you 're
glad to see 'em ; something to be made off of 'em. What 's the
blow now 1 "

" You've got a friend here?" said Haley, looking doubtfully
at Marks ; " partner, perhaps 1 "

" Yes, I have. Here, Marks ! here 'g that ar feller that I
was in with in Natchez."

" Shall be pleased with his acquaintance," said Marks,
thrusting out a long, thin hand, like a raven's claw. " Mr.
Haley, I believe 1 "

" The same, sir," said Haley. " And now, gentlemen, seein'
as we 've met so happily, I think I '11 stand up to a small
matter of a treat in this here parlor. So, now, old coon," said
he to the man at the bar, " get us hot water, and sugar, and
cigars, and plenty of the real stuff, and we '11 have a blow-out."

Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the
burning point in the grate, and our three worthies seated
round a table, well spread with all the accessories to good-
fellowship enumerated before.

Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles.
Loker shut up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff and
surly attention. Marks, who was anxiously and with much
fidgeting compounding a tumbler of punch to his own peculiar
taste, occasionally looked up from his employment, and, poking
his sharp nose and chin almost into Haley's face, gave the most

80 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

earnest heed to the whole narrative. The conclusion of it ap-
peared to amuse him extremely, for he shook his shoulders and
sides in silence, and perked up his thin lips with an air of great
internal enjoyment.

" So, then, ye 'r fairly sewed up, an't ye 1 " he said ; " he !
he ! he ! It 's neatly done, too."

" This yer youug-un business makes lots of trouble in the
trade," said Haley, dolefully.

" If we could get a breed of gals that did n't care, now, for
their young uns," said Marks; "tell ye, I think 'twould be
'bout the greatest mod'rn improvement I knows on," - and
Marks patronized his joke by a quiet introductory sniggle.

" Jes so," said Haley ; " I never could n't see into it ; young
uns is heaps of trouble to 'em ; one would think, now, they 'd
be glad to get clar on 'em ; but they arn't. And the more
trouble a young un is, and the more good for nothing, as a
gen'l thing, the tighter they sticks to 'em."

" Wai, Mr. Haley," said Marks, " jest pass the hot water.
Yes, sir ; you say jest what I feel and allers have. Now, I
bought a gal once, when I was in the trade, — a tight, likely
wench she was, too, and quite considerable smart, — and she
had a young un that was mis' able sickly ; it had a crooked
back, or something or other ; and I jest gin 't away to a man
that thought he 'd take his chance raising on 't, being it did n't
cost nothin' ; — never thought, yer know, of the gal's takin' on
about it, - - but, Lord, yer oughter seen how she went on.
Why, re'lly, she did seem to me to valley the child more 'cause
't ^vas sickly and cross, and plagued her ; and she warn't making
b'lieve, neither, — cried about it, she did, and lopped round,
as if she 'd lost every friend she had. It re'lly was droll to
think on 't. Lord, there a'nt no end to women's notions."

" Wai, jest so with me," said Haley. " Last summer, down
on Red river, I got a gal traded off on me, with a likely lookin'
child enough, and his eyes looked as bright as yourn ; but
come to look, I found him stone blind. Fact, — he was ston<
blind. Wai, ye see, I thought there warn't no harm in my jest
passing him along, and not sayin' nothin' ; and I 'd got him
nicely swapped off for a keg o' whiskey ; but come to get him
away from the gal, she was jest like a tiger. So 't was before
we started, and I had n't got my gang chained up ; so what
should she do but ups on a cotton-bale, like a cat, ketches a
knife from one of the deck hands, and, I tell ye, she made all

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 81

fly for a minnit, till she saw 't warn't no use ; and she jest turns
round, and pitches head first, young un and all, into the river,
- went down plump, and never ris."

" Bah ! " said Tom Loker, who had listened to these stories
with ill-repressed disgust, — " shif less, both on ye ! my gals
don't cut up no such shines, I tell ye ! "

" Indeed ! how do you help it 1 " said Marks, briskly.

" Help it ? why, I buys a gal, and if she 's got a young un
to be sold, I jest walks up and puts my fist to her face, and
says, ' Look here, now, if you give me one word out of your
head, I'll smash yer face in. I won't hear one word, — not
the beginning of a word.' I says to 'em, ' This yer young un 's
mine, and not yourn, and you 've no kind o' business with it.
I 'm going to sell it, first chance ; mind, you don't cut up none
o' yer shines about it, or I '11 make ye wish ye'd never been
born.' I tell ye, they sees it an't no play, when I gets hold.
I makes 'em as whist as fishes ; and if one on 'em begins and
gives a yelp, why - " and Mr. Loker brought down his fist
with a thump that fully explained the hiatus.

" That ar 's what ye may call emphasis" said Marks, poking
Haley in the side, and going into another small giggle. "An't
Tom peculiar 1 he ! he ! he ! I say, Tom, I spect you make
'em understand, for all niggers' heads is woolly. They don't
never have no doubt o' your meaning, Tom. If you an't the
devil, Tom, you 's his twin brother, I '11 say that for ye ! "

Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and
began to look as affable as was consistent, as John Bunyaii
says, " with his doggish nature."

Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple of
the evening, began to feel a sensible elevation and enlargement
of his moral faculties, — a phenomenon not unusual with gen-
tlemen of a serious and reflective turn, under similar circum-
stances.

" Wai, now, Tom," he said, " ye re'lly is too bad, as I al'ays
have told ye ; ye know, Tom, you and 1 used to talk over these
yer matters down in Natchez, and I used to prove to ye that
we made full as much, and was as well off for this yer world,
by treatin' on 'em well, besides keepin' a better chance for
comin' in the kingdom at last, when wust comes to wust, and
thar an't nothing else left to get, ye know."

" Boh ! " said Tom, " don't I know 1 — don't make me too sick
with any yer stuff, — my stomach is a leetle riled now " ; and
Tom drank half a glass of raw brandy.

82 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" I say," said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and ges<
taring impressively, "I'll say this now, I al'ays meant to drive
my trade so as to make money on 't, fust and foremost, as much
as any man ; but, then, trade an't everything, and money an't
everything, 'cause we 's all got souls. I don't care, now, who
hears me say it, — and I think a ciissed sight on it, — so I may
as well come out with it. I b'lieve in religion, and one of
these days, when I 've got matters tight and snug, I calculates
to tend to my soul and them ar matters ; and so what 's the
use of doin' any more wickedness than 's re'lly necessary 1 — it
don't seem to me it's 't all prudent."

" Tend to yer soul ! " repeated Tom, contemptuously ; " take
a bright lookout to find a soul in you, — save yourself any
care on that score. If the devil sifts you through a hair sieve,
he won't find one."

"Why, Tom, you're cross," said Haley; "why can't JQ
take it pleasant, now, when a feller 's talking for your good 1 "

" Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there," said Tom, gruffly. " I
can stand most any talk o' yo;irn but your pious talk, — that
kills me right up. After all, what 's the odds between me and
you 1 'T an't that you care one bit more, or have a bit more
feelin', — it 's clean, sheer, dog meanness, wanting to cheat the
devil and save your own skin ; don't I see through it 1 And
your ' gettin' religion,' as you call it, arter all, is too p'isin
mean for any crittur ; — run up a bill with the devil all your
life, and then sneak out when pay-time comes ! Boh ! "

" Come, come, gentlemen, I say ; this is n't business," said
Marks. " There 's different ways, you know, of looking at all
subjects. Mr. Haley is a very nice man, no doubt, and has
his own conscience ; and, Tom, you have your ways, and very
good ones, too, Tom ; but quarrelling, you know, won't answer
no kind of purpose. Let 's go to business. Now, Mr. Haley,
what is it ] - - you want us to undertake to catch this yer
gal?"

" The gal 's no matter of mine, — • she 's Shelby's ; it 's only
the boy. I was a fool for buying the monkey ! "

" You ''re generally a fool ! " said Tom, gruffly.

" Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs," said Marks, lick-
ing his lips ; " you see, Mr. Haley 's a puttin' us in a way of a
good job, I reckon : just hold still, -- these yer arrangements is
my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, how is she ] what is she 1 "

" Wai ! white and handsome, — well brought UP. I 'd a gin

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 83

Shelby eight hundred or a thousand, and then made well on
her."

" White and handsome, — well brought up ! " said Marks,
his sharp eyes, nose and mouth, all alive with enterprise.
"Look here, now, Loker, a beautiful opening. We '11 do a
business here on our own account ; — we does the catchin' ;
the boy, of course, goes to Mr. Haley, — we takes the gal to
Orleans to speculate on. An't it beautiful 1 "

Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during this
communication, now suddenly snapped it together, as a big dog
closes on a piece of meat, and seemed to be digesting the idea
at his leisure.

" Ye see," said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as he did
so, " ye see, we has justices convenient at all p'ints alongshore,
that does up any little jobs in our line quite reasonable. Tom,
he does the knockin' down and that ar ; and I come in all
dressed up, — shining boots, — everything first chop, when the
swearin' 's to be done. You oughter see, now," said Marks, in
a glow of professional pride, " how I can tone it off. One day,
I 'm Mr. Twickem, from New Orleans ; 'nother day, I 'm just
come from my plantation on Pearl river, where I works seven
hundred niggers ; then, again, 1 come out a distant relation of
Henry Clay, or some old cock in Kentuck. Talents is different,
you know. Now, Tom 'sa roarer when there's any thumping
or fighting to be done ; but at lying he an't good. Tom an't, —
ye see it don't come natural to him ; but, Lord, if thar 's a feller
in the country that can swear to anything and everything, and
put in all the circumstances and nourishes with a longer face,
and carry 't through better 'n I can, why, I 'd like to see him,
that 's all ! I b'lieve my heart, I could get along and snake
through, even if justices were more particular than they is.
Sometimes I rather wish they was more particular ; 't would
be a heap more relishin' if they was, -- more fun, yer know."

Tom Loker, who, as we have made it appear, was a man of
slow thoughts and movements, here interrupted Marks by
bringing his heavy fist down on the table, so as to make all
ring again. " It 'II do ! " he said.

" Lord bless ye, Tom, ye need n't break all the glasses ! "
said Marks ; " save your fist for time o' need."

" But, gentlemen, an't I to come in for a share of the profits ? "
said Haley.

"An't it enough we catch the boy for ye1?" said Lokes
" What do ye want 1 "

84 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" Wai," said Haley, " if I gives you the job, it 's worth
something, — say ten per cent on the profits, expenses paid."

" Now," said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking
the table with his heavy fist, " don't I know you, Dan Haley 1
Don't you think to come it over me ! Suppose Marks and I
have taken up the catchin' trade, jest to 'commodate gentlemen
like you, and get nothin' for ourselves 1 — Not by a long chalk !
we '11 have the gal out and out, and you keep quiet, or, ye see,
we '11 have both, - - what 's to hinder 1 Han't you show'd us
the game 1 It 's as free to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby
wants to chase us, look where the partridges was last year ; if
you find them or us, you 're quite welcome."

" 0, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that," said Haley, alarmed ;
" you catch the boy for the job ; — you allers did trade far with
me, Tom, and was up to yer word."

" Ye know that," said Tom ; " I don't pretend none of your
snivelling ways, but I won't lie in my 'counts with the devil
himself. What I ses I '11 do, I will do, — you know that, Dan
Haley."

" Jes so, jes so, - - I said so, Tom," said Haley ; " and if you 'd
only promise to have the boy for me in a week, at any point
you '11 name, that 's all I want."

" But it an't all I want, by a long jump," said Tom. " Ye
don't think I did business with you, down in Natchez, for
nothing, Haley ; I 've learned to hold an eel, when I catch him.
You 've got to fork over fifty dollars, flat down, or this child
don't start a peg. I know yer."

" Why, when you have a job in hand that may bring a clean
profit of somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred, why,
Tom, you 're onreasonable," said Haley.

" Yes, and has n't we business booked for five weeks to come,
— all we can do ? And suppose we leaves all, and goes to
bushwhacking round arter yer young un, and finally does n't
catch the gal, — and gals allers is the devil to catch, — what 's
then? would you pay us a cent, -- would you1? I think I see
you a doin' it, — ugh ! No, no ; flap down your fifty. If we
get the job, and it pays, I '11 hand it back ; if we don't, it 's for
our trouble, — that 's far, an't it, Marks ] "

" Certainly, certainly," said Marks, with a conciliatory tone ;
" it ?s only a retaining fee, you see, -- he ! he ! he ! -- we law-
yers, you know. Wal, we must all keep good-natured, — keep
easy, yer know. Tom '11 have the boy for yer, anywhere ye '11
name ; won't ye, Tom ? "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 85

" If I find the young un, I '11 bring him on to Cincinnati,
ind leave him at Granny Belcher's, on the landing," said Loker.

Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book, and
taking a long paper from thence, he sat down, and fixing his
keen black eyes on it, began mumbling over its contents :
" Barnes, — Shelby County, --boy Jim, three hundred dollars
for him, dead or alive.

" Edwards, --Dick and Lucy, -- man and wife, six hundred
dollars ; wench Polly and two children, — six hundred for her
or her head.

" I 'm jest a runnin' over our business, to see if we can take
up this yer handily. Loker," he said, after a pause, " we must
set Adams and Springer on the track of these yer ; they 've
been booked some time."

"They '11 charge too much," said Tom.

" I '11 manage that ar ; they 's young in the business, and
must spect to work cheap," said Marks, as he continued to read.
" Ther 's three on 'em easy cases, 'cause all you 've got to do is
to shoot 'em, or swear they is shot ; they could n't, of course,
charge much for that. Them other cases," he said, folding the
paper, " will bear puttin' off a spell. So now let 's come to the
particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw this yer gal when she
landed ! "

" To be sure, -- plain as I see you."

" And a man helpin' on her up the bank ? " said Loker.

" To be sure, I did."

" Most likely," said Marks, " she 's took in somewhere ; but
where, "s a question. Tom, what do you say ? "

" We must cross the river to-night, no mistake," said Tom.

" But there 's no boat about," said Marks. " The ice is run-
ning awfully, Tom ; an't it dangerous 1 "

"Don'no nothing 'bout that, — only it's got to be done,"
said Tom, decidedly.

" Dear me," said Marks, fidgeting, " it '11 be - - 1 say," he
said, walking to the window, " it 's dark as a wolfs mouth, and,
Tom-

" The long and short is, you 're scared, Marks ; but I can't
help that, -- you 've got to go. Suppose you want to lie by a
day or two, till the gal 's been carried on the underground line
up to Saiidusky or so, before you start."

" O, no ; I an't a grain afraid," said Marks, " only -

"Only what?" said Tom.

86 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" Well, about the boat. Yer see there an't any boat."

" I heard the woman say there was one coming along this
evening, and that a man was going to cross over in it. Neck
or nothing, we must go with him," said Tom.

" I s'pose you 've got good dogs," said Haley.

" First rate," said Marks. " But what 's the use 1 you ban*
got nothin' o' hers to smell on."

" Yes, I have," said Haley, triumphantly. " Here 's her
shawl she left on the bed in her hurry ; she left her bonnet,
too."

" That ar 's lucky," said Loker ; " fork over."

" Though the dogs might damage the gal, if they come on
her unawars," said Haley.

" That ar 's a consideration," said Marks. " Our dogs tore a
feller half to pieces, once, down in Mobile, 'fore we could get
'em off."

" Well, ye see, for this sort that 's to be sold for their looks,
that ar won't answer, ye see," said Haley.

" I do see," said Marks. " Besides, if she 's got took in,
' t an't no go, neither. Dogs is no 'count in these yer up states
where these critturs gets carried ; of course, ye can't get on
their track. They only does down in plantations, where nig-
gers, when they runs, has to do their own running, and don't
get no help."

" Well," said Loker, who had just stepped out to the bar to
make some inquiries, " they say the man 's come with the
boat; so, Marks -

That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quarters
he was leaving, but slowly rose to obey. After exchanging
a few words of further arrangement, Haley, with visible reluc-
tance, handed over the fifty dollars to Tom, and the worthy
trio separated for the night.

If any of our refined and Christian readers object to the
society into which this scene introduces them, let us beg them
to begin and conquer their prejudices in time. The catching
business, we beg to remind them, is rising to the dignity of a
lawful and patriotic profession. If all the broad land between
the Mississippi and the Pacific becomes one great market for
bodies and souls, and human property retains the locomotive
'tendencies of this nineteenth century, the trader and catcher
may yet be among our aristocracy.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and Andj,
in a state of high felicitation, pursued their way home.

Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed his
exultation by all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations,
by divers odd motions and contortions of his whole system.
Sometimes he would sit backward, with his face to the horse's
tail and sides, and then, with a whoop and a somerset, come
right side up in his place again, and, draAving on a grave face,
begin to lecture Andy in high-sounding tones for laxighing and

playing the fool. Anon, slapping his sides with his arms, he
would burst forth in peals of Laughter, that made the old woods
ring as they passed. With all these evolutions, he contrived
to keep the horses up to the top of their speed, until, between
ten and eleven, their heels resounded on the gravel at the end
of the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the railings.

" Is that you, Sam 1 Where are they ]"

" Mas'r Haley 's a-restin' at the tavern ; he 's drefful fatigued,
Missis."

"And Eliza, Sum?"

"Wai, she 's clar 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in the
land o' Canaan."

" Why, Sam, what do you mean 1 " said Mrs. Shelby, breath-
less, and almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words
came over her.

" Wai, Missis, de Lord he presarves his own. Lizy 's done
gone over the river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if de Lord took
her over in a charrit of fire and two bosses "

88 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

Sam's vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in his
mistress's presence ; and he made great capital of scriptural
figures and images.

" Come up here, Sam," said Mr. Shelby, who had followed
on to the veranda, " and tell your mistress what she wants.
Come, com?, Emily," said he, passing his arm round her, " you
are cold an& all in a shiver ; you allow yourself to feel too
much."

" Feel too much ! Am not I a woman, — a mother] Are
we not both responsible to God for this poor girl ] My God !
lay not this sin to our charge."

" What sin, Emily 1 You see yourself that we have only
done what we were obliged to."

" There 's an awful feeling of guilt about it, though," said
Mrs. Shelby. " I can't reason it away."

" Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive ! " called Sam, under the
veranda ; " take these yer hosses to der barn ; don't ye hear
Mas'r a callin' 1 " and Sam. soon appeared, palm-leaf in hand, at
the parlor door.

" Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was," said
Mr. Shelby. " Where is Eliza, if you know 1 "

" Wai, Mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin' on
the tloatin' ice. She crossed most 'markably ; it was n't no
less nor a miracle ; and I saw a man help her up the 'Hio side,
and then she was lost in the dusk."

" Sam, I think this rather apocryphal, — this miracle. Cross-
ing on floating ice is n't so easily done," said Mr. Shelby.

" Easy ! could n't nobody a done it, widout de Lord. Why,
now," said Sam, " 't was jist dis yer way. Mas'r Haley, and
me, and Andy, we comes up to de little tavern by the river,
and I rides a leetle ahead, — (I's so zealous to be a cotchin'
Lizy, that I could n't hold in, no way), — and when I comes
by the tavern winder, sure enough there she was, right in plain
sight, and dey diggin' on behind. Wai, I loses off my hat, and
sings out nutf to raise the dead. Course Lizy she hars, and she
dodges back, when Mas'r Haley he goes past the door; and
then, I tell ye, she clared out de side door ; she went down de
river bank ; — Mas'r Haley he seed her, and yelled out, and
him, and me, and Andy, we took arter. Down she come to
the river, and thar was the current running ten feet wide by
the shore, and over t' other side ice a sawin' and a jiggling up
and down, kinder as 't were a great island. We come right

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 89

behind her, and I thought my soul he 'd got her sure enough,
— when she gin sich a screech as I never hearn, and thar she
•was, clar over t' other side the current, on the ice, and then on
she went, a screeching and a j ampin'- -the ice went crack!
c'wallop ! cracking ! chunk ! and she a houndin' like a buck !
Lord, the spring that ar gal 's got in her an't common, I 'm o'
'pinion."

Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement, while
Sam told his story.

" God be praised, she is n't dead ! " she said ; " but where is
the poor child now 1 "

"De Lord will pervide," said Sam, rolling up his eyes
piously. "As I 've been a sayin', dis yer 's a providence and
no mistake, as Missis has allers been a instructin' on us.
Thar 's allers instruments ris up to do de Lord's will. Now,
if 't had n't been for me to-day, she 'd a been took a dozen
times. Warn't it I started off de hosses, dis yer mornin', and
kept 'em chasin' till nigh dinner-time \ And did n't I car
Mas'r Haley nigh five miles out of de road, dis evening, or
else he 'd a come up with Lizy as easy as a dog arter a coon ]
These yer 's all providences."

" They are a kind of providences that you '11 have to be
pretty sparing of, Master Sam. I allow no such practices with
gentlemen on my place," said Mr. Shelby, with as much stern-
ness as he could command, under the circumstances.

Now, there is no more use in making believe be angry with
a negro than with a child ; both instinctively see the true state
of the case, through all attempts to affect the contrary ; and
Sam was in no wise disheartened by this rebuke, though he
assumed an air of doleful gravity, and stood with the corners
of his mouth lowered in most penitential style.

" Mas'r 's quite right, — quite ; it was ugly on me, — there 's
no disputin' that ar ; and of course Mas'r and Missis would n't
encourage no such works. I 'in sensible of dat ar ; but a poor
nigger like me 's 'mazin' tempted to act ugly sometimes, when
fellers will cut up such shines as dat ar Mas'r Haley ; he an't
no gen'l'man no way ; anybody 's been raised as I Ve been can't
help a seein' dat ar."

" Well, Sam," said Mrs. Shelby, " as you appear to have a
proper sense of your errors, you may go now and tell Aunt
Chloe she may get you some of that cold ham that was left of
dinner to-day. You and Andy must be hungry."

42.4-

00 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Missis is a heap too good for us," said Sam, making his
"bow with alacrity, and departing.

It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that
Master Sam had a native talent that might, undoubtedly, have
raised him to eminence in political life, — a talent of making
capital out of everything that turned up, to be invested for
his own especial praise and glory ; and having done up his
piety and humility, as he trusted, to the satisfaction of the
parlor, he clapped his palm -leaf on his head, with a sort of
rakish, free-and-easy air, and proceeded to the dominions of
Aunt Chloe, with the intention of flourishing largely in the
kitchen.

" I '11 speechify these yer niggers," said Sam to himselt,
" now I 've got a chance. Lord, I '11 reel it off to make 'em
stare ! "

It must be observed that one of Sam's especial delights had
been to ride in attendance on his master to all kinds of politi-
cal gatherings, where, roosted on some rail fence, or perched
aloft in some tree, he would sit watching the orators, with
the greatest apparent gusto, and then, descending among the
various brethren of his own color, assembled on the same
errand, he would edify and delight them with the most ludi-
crous burlesques and imitations, all delivered with the most
imperturbable earnestness and solemnity ; and though the au-
ditors immediately about him were generally of his own color,
it not unfrequently happened that they were fringed pretty
deeply with those of a fairer complexion, who listened, laugh-
ing and winking, to Sam's great self-congratulation. In fact,
Sam considered oratory as his vocation, and never let slip an
opportunity of magnifying his office.

Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had existed, from
ancient times, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a decided cool-
ness ; but, as Sam was meditating something in the provision
department, as the necessary and obvious foundation of his
operations, he determined, on the present occasion, to be emi-
nently conciliatory ; for he well knew that although " Missis'
orders " would undoubtedly be followed to the letter, yet ho
should gain a considerable deal by enlisting the spirit also.
He therefore appeared before Aunt Chloe with a touchingly
eubdued, resigned expression, like one who has suffered im-
measurable hardships in behalf of a persecuted fellow-creature,
• — enlarged upon the fact that Missis had directed him to come

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

to Aunt Cliloe for whatever might be wanting to make up the
balance in his solids and fluids, — and thus unequivocally ac-
knowledged her right and supremacy in the cooking department,
and all thereto pertaining.

The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple, virtuous body
was ever cajoled by the attentions of an electioneering politician
with more ease than Aunt Chloe was won over by Master
Sam's suavities ; and if he had been the prodigal son himself,
he could not have been overwhelmed with more maternal
bountifulness ; and he soon found himself seated, happy and
glorious, over a large tin pan, containing a sort of olla podrida

of all that had appeared on the table for two or three days
past. Savory morsels of ham, golden blocks of corn-cake, frag-
ments of pie of every conceivable mathematical figure, chicken
wings, gizzards, and drumsticks, all appeared in picturesque

92 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

confusion ; and Sain, as monarch of all he surveyed, sat mth
his palm-leaf cocked rejoicingly to one side, and patronizing
Andy at his right hand.

The kitchen was full of all his compeers, who had hurried
and crowded in, from the various cabins, to hear the termina-
tion of the day's exploits. Now was Sam's hour of glory.
The s^ory of the day was rehearsed, with all kinds of orna-
ment and varnishing which might be necessary to heighten its
effect ; for Sam, like some of our fashionable dilettanti, never
allowed a story to lose any of its gilding by passing through
his hands. Eoars of laughter attended the narration, and were
taken up and prolonged by all the smaller fry, who were lying,
in any quantity, about on the floor, or perched in every corner.
In the height of the uproar and laughter, Sam, however, pre-
served an immovable gravity, only from time to time rolling
his eyes up, and giving his auditors divers inexpressibly droll
glances, without departing from the sententious elevation of his
oratory.

"Yer see, fellow-countrymen," said Sam, elevating a tur-
key's leg, with energy, "yer see, now, \vhat dis yer chile's
up ter, for 'fendin' yer all, — yes, all on yer. For him as tries
to get one o' our people, is as good as tryin' to get all ; yer
see the principle 's de same, — dat ar 's clar. And any one o'
these yer drivers that comes smelling round arter any our
people, why, he 's got me in his way ; I'm the feller he 's got to
set in with, — I 'm the feller for yer all to come to, bredren, — -
I '11 stand up for yer rights, — I '11 'fend 'em to the last breath ! "

" Why, but, Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin', that
yon 'd help this yer Mas'r to cotch Lizy ; seems to me yer talk
don't hang together," said Andy.

" I tell you now, Andy," said Sam, with awful superiority,
" don't yer be a talkin' 'bout what yer don't know iiothin' on ;
boys like you, Andy, means well, but they can't be spected to
tollusitate the great principles of action."

Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word collusi-
tate, which most of the youngerly members of the company
seemed to consider as a settler in the case, while Sam proceeded.

" Dat ar was conscience, Andy ; when I thought of gwine
arter Lizy, I railly spected Mas'r was sot dat way. When I
found Missis was sot the contrar, dat ar was conscience more
yet, - - 'cause fellers allers gets more by stickin' to Missis'
side, — so yer see I 's persistent either way, and sticks up tu

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 93

conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes, principles" said
Sam, giving an enthusiastic toss to a chicken's neck, -- " what
's principles good for, if we is n't persistent, I wanter know ?
Thar, Andy, you may have dat ar bone, - - 't an't picked quite
clean."

Sam's audience hanging on his words with open mouth, he
could not but proceed.

" Dis yer matter 'bout persistence, feller-niggers," said Sam,
with the air of one entering into an abstruse subject, "dis yer
'sistency 's a thing what an't seed into very clar, by most any-
body. Now, yer see, when a feller stands up for a thing one
day and night, de contrar de next, folks ses (and nat'rally
enough dey ses), why he an't pertistent — hand nie dat ar bit
o' corn-cake, Andy. But let 's look inter it. I hope the gen'l-
men and der fair sex will scuse my usin' an or'nary sort o'
'parison. Here ! I 'm a tryin' to get top o' der hay. Wai, I
puts up my larder dis yer side ; 't an't no go ; — den, 'cause
I don't try dere no more, but puts my larder right de contrar
side, an't I persistent ? I 'm persistent in wantin' to get up
which ary side my larder is ; don't you see, all on yer ? "

" It 's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows ! "
muttered Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive ; the mer-
riment of the evening being to her somewhat after the Scrip-
ture comparison, — like " vinegar upon nitre."

" Yes, indeed ! " said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory,
for a closing effort. " Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of de
other sex in general, I has principles, — I 'm proud to 'oon
'em, — they 's perquisite to dese yer times, and ter all times.
I has principles, and I sticks to 'em like forty, — jest anything
that I thinks is principle, I goes in to 't ;--! would n't mind
if dey burnt me 'live, — I 'd walk right up to de stake, I would,
and say, here I comes to shed my last blood fur my principles,
fur my country, fur der gen'l interests of s'ciety."

"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "one o' yer principles will have
to be to get to bed some time to-night, and not be a keepin'
everybody up till mornin' ; now, every one of you young uns
that don't want to be cracked, had better be scase, mighty
sudden."

" Niggers ! all on yer," said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with
benignity, " I give yer my blessin' ; go to bed now, and be
good boys."

And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed.

94 UNCLE TOM'S CABIK ; Oil,

CHAPTEE IX.

IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT A MAN.

light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and
carpet of a cosey parlor, and glittered on the sides
of the teacups and well-brightened teapot, as Sena-
tor Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to
inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome slip-
pers, which his wife had been working for him while away oil
his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, looking the very picture of de-
light, was superintending the arrangements of the table, ever
and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of frolic-
some juveniles, who were effervescing in all those modes ot
untold gambol and mischief that have astonished mothers ever
since the flood.

" Tom, let the door-knob alone, — there 's a man ! Mary i
Mary ! don't puli tne cat's tail, — poor pussy ! Jim, you
must n't climb on that table, — no, no ! - - You don't know, my
dear, what a surprise it is to us aJl, to see you here to-night ! "
said she, at last, when she found A space to say something to
her husband.

" Yes, yes, I thought I 'd just maks a run down, spend the
night, and have a little comfort at horae. I Jm tired to death,
and my head aches ! "

Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor bottle, which stood in
the half-open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach to
it, but her husband interposed.

" No, no, Mary, no doctoring ! a cup of your good hot tea,
and some of our good home living, is what I want. It 's a tire-
gome business, this legislating ! "

And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked the idea of con
rfidering himself a sacrifice to his country.

" Well." said his wife, after the business of the tea-table was
getting rather slack, " and what have they been doing in thu
Senate?"

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

Now, it was a very unusiml thing for gentle little Mrs. Bird
ever to trouble her head with what was going on in the house
of the state, very wisely considering that she had enough to do
to rnind her own. Mr. Bird, therefore, opened his eyes in sur
prise, and said, -

"Not very much of importance."

" Well ; but is it true that they have been passing a law
forbidding people to give meat and drink to those poor colored
folks that come along 1 I heard they were talking of some
such law, but I did n't think any Christian legislature would
pass it ! "

" Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician, all at once,'*

" No, nonsense ! I would n't give a fig for all your politics,
generally, but I think this is something downright cruel anc'
unchristian. I hope, my dear, no such law has been passed."

" There has been a law passed forbidding people to help ol
the slaves that come over from Kentucky, my dear ; so much
of that thing has been done by these reckless Abolitionists,
that our brethren in Kentucky are very strongly excited, and
it seems necessary, and no more than Christian and kind, that
something should te done by our state to quiet the excite-
ment."

iJ6 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" And what is the law 1 It don't forbid us to shelter these
poor creatures a night, does it, and to give 'em something com-
ibrtable to eat, and a few old clothes, and send them quietly
about their business 1 "

"Why, yes, my dear; that would be aiding and abetting,
you know."

Mrs. Bird was a timid, blushing little woman, of about four
feet in height, and with mild blue eyes, and a peach-blow com-
plexion, and the gentlest, sweetest voice in the world ; — as
for courage, a moderate-sized cock-turkey had been known to
put her to rout at the very first gobble, and a stout house-dog,
of moderate capacity, would bring her into subjection merely
by a show of his, teeth. Her husband and children were her
entire world, and in these she ruled more by entreaty and per-
suasion than by command or argument. There was only one
thing that was capable of arousing her, and that provocation
came in on the side of her unusually gentle and sympathetic
nature ; — anything in the shape of cruelty would throw her
into a passion, which was the more alarming and inexplicable
in proportion to the general softness of her nature. Generally
the most indulgent and easy to be entreated of all mothers, still
her boys had a very reverent remembrance of a most vehement
chastisement she once bestowed on them, because she found
them leagued with several graceless boys of the neighborhood,
stoning a defenceless kitten.

" I '11 tell you what," Master Bill used to say, " I was scared
that time. Mother came at me so that I thought she was crazy,
and I was whipped and tumbled off to bed, without any supper,
before I could get over wondering what had come about ; and,
after that, I heard mother crying outside the door, which made
me feel worse than all the rest. I '11 tell you what," he 'd say,
" we boys never stoned another kitten ! "

On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with very
red cheeks, which quite improved her general appearance, and
walked up to her husband, with quite a resolute air, and said,
in a determined tone, -

" Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as
that is right and Christian 1 "

" You won't shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do ! "

" I never could have thought it of you, John , you did n't
Vote for it ] "

" Even so, my fair politician."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 97

" You ought to be ashamed, John ! Poor, homeless, house-
less creatures ! It 's a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and
I '11 break it, for one, the first time I get a chance ; and I hope
I shall have a chance, I do ! Things have got to a pretty pass,
if a woman can't give a warm supper and a bed to poor, starv-
ing creatures, just because they are slaves, and have been
abused and oppressed all their lives, poor things ! "

" But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are all quite
right, dear, and interesting, and I love you for them ; but,
then, dear, we must n't suffer our feelings to run away with
our judgment ; you must consider it 's not a matter of private
feeling, — there are great public interests involved, — there is
such a state of public agitation rising, that we must put aside
our private feelings."

" Now, John, I don't know anything about politics, but I
can read my Bible ; and there I see that I must feed the
hungry, clothe the naked, and comfort the desolate ; and that
Bible I mean to follow."

" But in cases where your doing so would involve a great
public evil -

" Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it
can't. It 's always safest, all round, to do as he bids us."

" Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very
clear argument, to show — "

" 0, nonsense, John ! you can talk all night, but you
wouldn't do it. I put it to you, John, -- would you, now,
turn away a poor, shivering, hungry creature from your door,
because he was a runaway 1 Would you, now ] "

Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfor-
tune to be a man who had a particularly humane and accessi-
ble nature, and turning away anybody that was in trouble
never had been his forte ; and what was worse for him in this
particular pinch of the argument was, that his wife knew it,
and, of course, was making an assault on rather an indefensible
point. So he had recourse to the usual means of gaining time
for such cases made and provided ; he said " ahem," and
coughed several times, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and
began to wipe his glasses. Mrs. Bird, seeing the defenceless
condition of the enemy's territory, had no more conscience
than to push her advantage.

"I should like to see you doing that, John, — I really
should ! Turning a woman out of doors in a snow-storm, for

98 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

instance ; or, may be you M take her up and put her in jail,
would n't you ] You would make a great hand at that ! "

" Of course, it would be a very painful duty," began Mr.
Bird, in a moderate tone.

" Duty, John ! don't use that word ! You know it is n't a
duty, --it can't be a duty ! If folks want to keep their slaves
from running away, let 'em treat 'em well, --that 's my doc
trine. If I had slaves (as I hope I never shall have), I 'd risk
their wanting to run away from me, or you either, John. I
tell you folks don't run away when they are happy ; and when
they do run, poor creatures ! they suffer enough, with cold and
hunger and fear, without everybody's turning against them ;
and, law or no law, I never will, so help me God ! "

" Mary ! Mary ! My dear, let me reason with you."

" I hate reasoning, John, — especially reasoning on such
subjects. There 's a way you political folks have of coming
round and round a plain right thing ; and you don't believe
in it yourselves, when it comes to practice. I know you well
enough, John. You don't believe it 's right any more than I
do ; and you would n't do it any sooner than I."

At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-
work, put his head in at the door, and wished " Missis would
come into the kitchen " ; and our senator, tolerably relieved,
looked after his little wife with a whimsical mixture of amuse-
ment and vexation, and, seating himself in the arm-chair, began
to read the papers.

After a moment, his wife's voice was heard at the door, in a
quick, earnest tone, — "John! John! I do wish you 'd come
here, a moment."

He laid down his paper, and went into the kitchen, and
started, quite amazed at the sight that presented itself : — A
young and slender woman, with garments torn and frozen, with
one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away from the cut and
bleeding foot, was laid back in a deadly swoon upon two chairs.
There was the impress of the despised race on her face, yet none
could help feeling its mournful and pathetic beauty, while its
stony sharpness, its cold, fixed, deathly aspect, struck a solemn
chill over him. He drew his breath short, and stood in silence.
His wife, and their only colored domestic, old Aunt Dinah,
were busily engaged in restorative measures ; while old Cudjoe
had got the boy on his knee, and was busy pulling off his shoes
and stockings, and chafing his little cold feet.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

100 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Sure, now, if she an't a sight to behold ! " said old Dinah,
compassionately ; " 'pears like 't was the heat that made her
faint. She was tol'able peart when she cum in, and asked if
she could n't warm herself here a spell ; and I was just a
askin' her where she cum from, and she fainted right down.
Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks of her hands."

" Poor creature ! '' said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as the
woman slowly unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked A'a-
cantly at her. Suddenly an expression of agony crossed her
face, and she sprang up, saying, " 0, my Harry ! Have they
got him 1 "

The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe's knee, and, running
to her side, put up his arms. " 0, he 's here ! he 's here ! "
she exclaimed.

" 0, ma'am ! " said she, wildly, to Mrs. Eird, " do protect us !
don't let them get him ! "

" Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman," said Mrs. Eird,
encouragingly. " You are safe ; don't be afraid."

" God bless you ! " said the woman, covering her face and
sobbing ; while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get
into her lap.

With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew
better how to render than Mrs. Eird, the poor woman was, in
time, rendered more calm. A temporary bed was provided for
her on the settle, near the fire ; and, after a short time, she fell
into a heavy slumber, with the child, who seemed no less
weary, soundly sleeping on her arm ; for the mother resisted,
with nervous anxiety, the kindest attempts to take him from
her; and, even in sleep, her arm encircled him with an un-
relaxing clasp, as if she could not even then be beguiled of her
Vigilant hold.

Mr. and Mrs. Eird had gone back to the parlor, wh^re,
strange as it may appear, no reference was made, on either side,
to the preceding conversation ; but Mrs. Bird busied herself
with her knitting-work, and Mr. Bird pretended to be reading
the paper.

" I wonder who and what she is ! " said Mr. Eird, at last, as
he laid it down.

" When she wakes up and feels a little rested, we will see,"
said Mrs. Bird.

" I say, wife .' " said Mr. Bird, after musing in silence ovei
his newspaper.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 101

" Well, dear ! "

" She could n't wear one of your gowns, could she, by any
letting down, or such matter ? She seems to be rather larger
than you are."

A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird's face, as
jfhe answered, " We '11 see."

Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out, —

" I say, wife ! "

" Well ! what now ] "

" Why, there 's that old bombazine cloak, that you keep on
purpose to put over me when I take my afternoon's nap ; you
might as well give her that, — she needs clothes."

At this instant, Dinah looked in to say that the woman was
awake, and wanted to see Missis.

Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the
two eldest boys, the smaller fry having, by this time, been
safely disposed of in bed.

The woman was now sitting up on the settle, by the fire.
She was looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart-
broken expression, very different from her former agitated
wild ness.

" Did you want me ? " said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. " I
hope you feel better now, poor woman ! "

A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer ; but she
lifted her dark eyes, and fixed them on her with such a forlorn
and imploring expression, that the tears came into the little
woman's eyes.

" You need n't be afraid of anything ; we are friends here,
poor woman ! Tell me where you came from, and what you
want," said she.

" I came from Kentucky," said the woman.

" When? " said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory.

" To-night."

" How did you come ? "

" I crossed on the ice."

" Crossed on the ice ! " said every one present.

" Yes," said the woman, slowly, " I did. God helping me.
I crossed on the ice ; for they were behind me, — right be-
hind, -- and there was no other way ! "

"Law, Missis," said Cudjoe, "the ice is all in broken-up
blocks, a swinging and a teetering up and down in the water."

" I know it was, — I know it ! " said she, wildly ; " but I did

102 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

it! I wouldn't have thought I could,--! didn't think I
should get over, but I did n't care ! I could but die, if I did
n't. The Lord helped me ; nobody knows how much the Lord
can help 'em, till they try," said the woman, with a flashing eye.

" Were you a slave 1 " said Mr. Bird.

" Yes, sir ; I belonged to a man in Kentucky."

" Was he unkind to you 1 "
: No, sir ; he was a good master."
• And was your mistress unkind to you 1 "

" ISTo, sir, — no ! my mistress was always good to me."

" What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and run
away, and go through such dangers 1 "

The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird with a keen, scrutiniz-
ing glance, and it did not escape her that she was dressed in
deep mourning.

" Ma'am," she said, suddenly, " have you ever lost a child ? "

The question was unexpected, and it was a thrust on a new
wound ; for it was only a month since a darling child of the
family had been laid in the grave.

Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and
Mrs. Bird burst into tears; but, recovering her voice, she said, —

" Why do you ask that 1 I have lost a little one."

" Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after
another, — left 'em buried there when I came away ; and I had
only this one left. I never slept a night without him ; he was
all I had. He was my comfort and pride, day and night ; and,
ma'am, they were going to take him away from me, — to sell
him, — sell him down south, ma'am, to go all alone, — a baby
that had never been away from his mother in his life ! I
could n't stand it, ma'am. I knew I never should be good for
anything, if they did ; and when I knew the papers were
signed, and he was sold, I took him and came off in the night ;
and they chased me, — the man that bought him, and some of
Mas'r's folks, — and they were coming down right behind me,
and I heard 'em. I jumped right on to the ice ; and how 1
got across, I don't know, -- but, first I knew, a man was help-
ing me up the bank."

The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a place
where tears are dry ; but every one around her was. in some
way characteristic of themselves, showing signs of hearty sym-
pathy.

The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in then

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 103

pockets, in search of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers
know are never to be found there, had thrown themselves dis-
consolately into the skirts of their mother's gown, where they
were sobbing, and wiping their eyes and noses, to their hearts'
content ; — Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in her pocket-
handkerchief ; and old Dinah, with tears streaming down her
black, honest face, was ejaculating, " Lord have mercy on us ! "
with all the fervor of a camp-meeting; — while old Cudjoe,
rubbing his eyes very hard with his cuffs, and making a most
uncommon variety of wry faces, occasionally responded in the
same key, with great fervor. Our senator was a statesman, and
of course could not be expected to cry, like other mortals ; and
so he turned his back to the company, and looked out of the
window, and seemed particularly busy in clearing his throat and
wiping his spectacle-glasses, occasionally blowing his nose in a
manner that was calculated to excite suspicion, had any one
been in a state to observe critically.

" How came you to tell me you had a kind master1?" he
suddenly exclaimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind
of rising in his throat, and turning suddenly round upon the
woman.

" Because he was a kind master ; I '11 say that of him, any
way; — and my mistress was kind; but they couldn't help
themselves. They were owing money ; and there was some
way, I can't tell how, that a man had a hold on them, and
they were obliged to give him his will. I listened, and heard
him telling mistress that, and she begging and pleading for
me, — and he told her he could n't help himself, and that the
papers were all drawn ; — and then it was I took him and left
my home, and came away. I knew 'twas no use of my trying
to live, if they did it ; for 't 'pears like this child is all I have."

" Have you no husband 1 "

" Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real
hard to him, and won't let him come to see me, hardly ever ;
and he 's grown harder and harder upon us, and he threatens
to sell him down south ; — it 's like I '11 never see him again ! "

The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words
might have led a superficial observer to think that she was en-
tirely apathetic ; but there was a calm, settled depth of anguish
in her large, dark eye, that spoke of something far otherwise.

" And where do you mean to go, my poor woman 1 " said
Mrs. Bird.

104 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very far
off, is Canada 1 " said she, looking up, with a simple, confiding
air, to Mrs. Bird's face.

" Poor thing ! " said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily.

" Is 't a very great way off, think 1 " said the woman, earnestly.

" Much further than you think, poor child ! " said Mrs. Bird ;
" but we will try to think what can be done for you. Here,
Dinah, make her up a bed in your own room, close by the
kitchen, and I '11 think what to do for her in the morning.
Meanwhile, never fear, poor woman : put your trust in God ;
he will protect you."

Mrs. Bird and her husband re-entered the parlor. She sat
down in her little rocking-chair before the tire, swaying thought-
fully to and fro. Mr. Bird strode up and down the room,
grumbling to himself. " Pish ! pshaw ! confounded awkward
business ! " At length, striding up to his wife, he said, —

" I say, wife, she '11 have to get away from here, this very
night. That fellow will be down on the scent bright and early
to-morrow morning ; if 't was only the woman, she could lie
quiet till it was over ; but that little chap can't be kept still by
a troop of horse and foot, I '11 warrant me ; he '11 bring it all
out, popping his head out of some window or door. A pretty
kettle of fish it would be for me, too, to be caught with them
both here, just now ! No ; they '11 have to be got off to-night."

" To-night ! How is it possible 1 — where to 1 "

" Well, I know pretty well where to," said the senator, be-
ginning to put on his boots, with a reflective air ; and, stopping
when his leg was half in, he embraced his knee with both hands,
and seemed to go off in deep meditation.

"It's a confounded awkward, ugly business," said he, a'
last, beginning to tug at his boot-straps again, " and that 's
fact ! " After one boot was fairly on, the senator sat with the
other in his hand, profoundly studying the figure of the carpet.
" It will have to be done, though, for aught I see, — hang it
all ! " and he drew the other boot anxiously on, and looked out
of the window.

Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman, — a woman
who never in her life said, " I told you so ! " and, on the pres-
ent occasion, though pretty well aware of the shape her hus-
band's meditations were taking, she very prudently forbore to
meddle with them, only sat very quietly in her chair, and
looked quite ready to hear her liege lord's intentions, when ha
should think proper to utter them.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 1U5

" You see," be said, " there 's my old client, Van Trompe,
has come over from Kentucky, and set all his slaves free ; and
he has bought a place seven miles up the creek, here, back in
the woods, where nobody goes, unless they go on purpose ; and
it 's a place that is n't found in a hurry. There she 'd be safe
enough ; but the plague of the thing is, nobody could drive a
carriage there to-night, but me."

" Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver."

" Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed twice ;
and the second crossing is quite dangerous, unless one knows it
as I do. I have crossed it a hundred times on horseback, and
know exactly the turns to take. And so, you see, there 's no
help for it. Cudjoe must put in the horses, as quietly as may
be, about twelve o'clock, and I '11 take her over ; and then, to
give color to the matter, he must carry me on to the next tav-
ern, to take the stage for Columbus, that comes by about three
or four, and so it will look as if I had had the carriage only for
that. I shall get into business bright and early in the morning.
But I 'm thinking I shall feel rather cheap there, after all that 's
been said and done ; but, hang it, I can't help it ! "

" Your heart is better than your head, in this case, John,"
said the wife, laying her little white hand on his. " Could I
ever have loved you, had I not known you better than you
know yourself?" And the little woman looked so handsome,
with the tears sparkling in her eyes, that the senator thought
he must be a decidedly clever fellow, to get such a pretty crea-
ture into such a passionate admiration of him ; and so, what
could he do but walk off soberly, to see about the carriage. At
the door, however, he stopped a moment, and then coming
back, he said, with some hesitation, -

" Mary, I don't know how you 'd feel about it, but there 's
that drawer full of things — of — of --poor little Henry's."
So saying, he turned quickly on his heel, and shut the door
after him.

His wife opened the little bedroom door adjoining her room,
and, taking the candle, set it down on the top of a bureau
there ; then from a small recess she took a key, and put it
thoughtfully in the lock of a drawer, and made a sudden pause,
while two boys, who, boy-like, had followed close on her heels,
stood looking, with silent, significant glances, at their mother.
And 0, mother that reads this, has there "never been in your
house a drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been

106 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

to you like the opening again of a little grave 1 Ah ! happy
mother that you are, if it has not been so.

Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little coats
of many a form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of small
stockings ; and even a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at
the toes, were peeping from the folds of a paper. There was a
toy horse and wagon, a top, a ball, — memorials gathered with
many a tear and many a heart-hreak ! She sat down by thu
drawer, and, leaning her head on her hands over it, wept till
the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer ; then suddenly
raising her head, she began, with nervous haste, selecting the
plainest and most substantial articles, and gathering them into
a bundle.

" Mamma," said one of the boys, gently touching her arm,
" are you going to give away those things 1 "

" My clear boys," she said, softly and earnestly, " if our dear,
loving little Henry looks down from heaven, he would be glad
to have us do this. I could not find it in my heart to give
them away to any common person, --to anybody that was
iiappy ; but I give them to a mother more heart-broken and
sorrowful than I am ; and I hope God will send his blessings
with them ! "

There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring
up into joys for others ; whose earthly hopes, laid in the grave
with many tears, are the seed from which spring healing flowers
and balm for the desolate and the distressed. Among such
was the delicate woman who sits there by the lamp, dropping
elow tears, while she prepares the memorials of her own lost
one for the outcast wanderer.

After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking
from thence a plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down
busily to her work-table, and, with needle, scissors, and thim-
ble, at hand, quietly commenced the " letting down " process
which her husband had recommended, and continued busily nt
it till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, and she heaid
the low rattling of wheels at the door.

" Mary," said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in
his hand, " you must wake her up now ; we must be off."

Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had col-
lected in a small plain trunk, and locking it, desired her hus-
band to see it in the carriage, and then proceeded to call the
woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 107

had belonged to her benefactress, she appeared at the door with
her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her into the carriage,
and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage steps. Elizs?
leaned out of the carriage, and put out her hand, — a hand &i
soft and beautiful as was given in return. She lixed her large,
dark eyes, full of earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird's face, and
seemed going to speak. Her lips moved, — she tried once or
twice, but there was no sound, — and pointing upward, with a
look never to be forgotten, she fell back in the seat, and cov-
ered her face. The door was shut, and the carriage drove on.

What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had been
all the week before spurring up the legislature of his native
state to pass more stringent resolutions against escaping fugi-
tives, their harborers and abettors !

Our good senator in his native state had not been exceeded
by any of his brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence
which has won for them immortal renown ! How sublimely
he had sat Avith his hands in his pockets, and scouted all
sentimental weakness of those who would put the welfare of a
few miserable fugitives before great state interests !

He was as bold as a lion about it, and " mightily convinced "
not only himself, but everybody that heard him ; — but then
his idea of a fugitive was only an idea of the letters that spell
the word, — or, at the most, the image of a little newspaper
picture of a man with a stick and bundle, with " Han away
from the subscriber" under it. The magic of the real presence
of distress, - - the imploring human eye, the frail, trembling
human hand, the despairing appeal of helpless agony, — these
he had never tried. He had never thought that a fugitive
might be a hapless mother, a defenceless child, — like that one
which Avas now wearing his lost boy's little well-known cap ;
and so, as our poor senator was not stone or steel, — as he was
a man, and a downright noble-hearted one, too, --he was, as
everybody must see, in a sad case for his patriotism. And you
need not exult over him, good brother of the Southern States ;
for we have some inklings that many of you, under similar cir-
cumstances, would not do much better. We have reason to
know, in Kentucky, as in Mississippi, are noble and generous
hearts, to whom never was tale of suffering told in vain. Ah,
good brother ! is it fair for you to expect of us services which
your own brave, honorable heart would not allow you to ren-
der, were you in our place 1

108 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sinner,
he was in a fair way to expiate it by his night's penance.
There had been a long continuous period of rainy weather, and
the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as every one knows, is admirably
suited to the manufacture of mud, — and the road was an Ohio
railroad of the good old times.

" And pray, what sort of a road may that be ? " says some
eastern traveller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas
with a railroad but those of smoothness or speed.

Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted re-
gions of the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and
sublime depth, roads are made of round rough logs, arranged
transversely side by side, and coated over in their pristine
freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may come to hand,
and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and straight-
way essayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time, the rains
wash off all the turf and grass aforesaid, move the logs hither
and thither, in picturesque positions, up, down, and crosswise,
with divers chasms and ruts of black mud intervening.

Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling along,
making moral reflections as continuously as under the circum-
stances could be expected, — the carriage proceeding along
much as follows, — bump! bump! bump! slush! down in
the mud ! — the senator, woman, and child reversing their
positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate
adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side. Car-
riage sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the outside is heard making
a great muster among the horses. After various ineffectual
pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is losing all pa-
tience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce, — two
front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman,
and child all tumble promiscuously on to the front seat, —
senator's hat is jammed over his eyes and nose quite uncere-
moniously, and he considers himself fairly extinguished ; —
child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside delivers animated ad-
dresses to the horses, who are kicking, and floundering, and
straining, under repeated cracks of the whip. Carriage springs
up, with another bounce, — down go the hind wheels, — sena-
tor, woman, and child fly over on to the back seat, his elbows
encountering her bonnet, and both her feet being jammed into
his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After a few mo-
ments the "slough " is passed, and the horses stop, panting;

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

109

- — the senator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet
and hushes her child, and they brace themselves firmly for
what is yet to come.

For a while only the continuous bump ! bump ! intermingled,
just by way of variety, with divers side plunges and compound
shakes ; and they begin to flatter themselves that they are not
so badly oft', after all. At last, with a square plunge, which
puts all on to their feet and then down into their seats with in-
credible quickness, the carriage stops, — and, after much outside
commotion, Curljoe appears at the door.

" Please, sir, it 's powerful bad spot, this yer. I don't know
how we 's to get clar out. I 'm a thinkin' we '11 have to be a
gettin' rails."

The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some
firm foothold ; down goes one foot an immeasurable depth, -
he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles over into
the mud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition, by
Cud joe.

But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones.

110

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Western travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in
ihe interesting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry their
carriages out of mud-holes, will have a respectful and mourn-
ful sympathy with our unfortunate hero. We beg them to
drop a silent tear, and pass on.

It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged, drip-
ping and bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the door of
a large farm-house.

It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates ;
but at last the respectable proprietor appeared, and undid the
door. He was a great, tall, bristling Orson of a fellow, full six
feet and some inches in his stockings, and arrayed in a red flan-
nel hunting-shirt. A very heavy mat of sandy hair, in a de-
cidedly tousled condition, and a beard of some days' growth
gave the worthy man an appearance, to say the least, not pal

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. Ill

ticularly prepossessing. He stood for a few minutes holding
ihe candle aloft, and blinking on our travellers with a dismal
and mystitied expression that was truly ludicrous. It cost some
effort of our senator to induce him to comprehend the case fully ;
and while he is doing his best at that, we shall give him a little
introduction to our readers.

Honest old John Van Trornpe was once quite a considerable
land-holder and slave-owner in the State of Kentucky. Hav-
ing " nothing of the bear about him but the skin," and being
gifted by nature with a great, honest, just heart, quite equal to
his gigantic frame, he had been for some years witnessing with
repressed uneasiness the workings of a system equally bad for
oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day, John's great heart
had swelled altogether too big to wear his bonds any longer ;
so he just took his pocket-book out of his desk, and went over
into Ohio, and bought a quarter of a township of good, rich
land, made out free papers for all his people, — men, women,
and children, --packed them up in wagons, and sent them off
to settle down ; and then honest John turned his face up the
creek, and sat quietly down on a snug, retired farm, to enjoy
his conscience and his reflections.

" Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and child
from slave-catchers 1 " said the senator, explicitly.

" I rather think I am," said honest John, with some consid-
erable emphasis.

" I thought so," said the senator.

" If there 's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching
his tall, muscular form upward, " why here I 'm ready for him ;
and 1 've got seven sons, each six foot high, and they '11 be
ready for 'em. Give our respects to 'em," said John ; " tell 'em
it 's no matter how soon they call, — make no kinder difference
to us," said John, running his fingers through the shock of hair
that thatched his head, and bursting out into a great laugb.

Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to the
door, with her child lying in a heavy sleep on her arm. The
rough man held the candle to her face, and uttering a kind of
compassionate grunt, opened the door of a small bedroom ad-
joining to the large kitchen where they were standing, and
motioned her to go in. He took down a candle, and lighting
it, set it upon the table, and then addressed himself to Eliza.

" Now, I say, gal, you need n't be a bit afeard, let who will
come here. J 'm up to all that sort o' thing," said he, pointing

112 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

to two or three goodly rifles over the mantel- piece ; " and most
people that know me know that 't would n't be healthy to try
to get anybody out o' my house when I 'm agin it. So now
you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was a rockin'
ye," said he, as he shut the door.

" Why, this is an uncommon handsome un," he said to the
senator. " Ah, well ; handsome uns has the greatest cause to
run, sometimes, if they has any kind o' feelin', such as decent
women should. I know all about that."

The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza's history.

" Oh ! ou ! aw ! now, 1 want to know ri " said the good man,
pitifully ; " sho ! now sho ! That 's natur now, poor crittur !
hunted down now like a deer, -- hunted down, jest for havin'
natural feelin's, and doin' what no kind o' mother could help a
doin' ! I tell ye what, these yer things make me come the
nighest to swearin', now, o' most anything," said honest John,
as he wiped his eyes with the back of a great, freckled, yellow
hand. " I tell yer what, stranger, it was years and years be-
fore I 'd jine the church, 'cause the ministers round in our parts
used to preach that the Bible went in for these ere cuttings up,
— and I could n't be up to 'em with their Greek and Hebrew,
and so I took up agin 'em, Bible and all. I never jined the
church till I found a minister that was up to 'em all in Greek
and all that, and he said right the contrary ; and then I took
right hold, and jined the church, -- I did now, fact," said John,
who had been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottled
cider, which at this juncture he presented.

"Ye 'd better jest put up here, now, till daylight," said he,
heartily, " and I '11 call up the old woman, and have a bed got
ready for you in no time."

" Thank you, my good friend," said the senator. " I must
be along, to take the night stage for Columbus."

" Ah ! well, then, if you must, I '11 go a piece with you, and
show you a cross road that will take you there better than the
road you came on. That road 's mighty bad."

John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, was
soon seen guiding the senator's carriage towards a road that ran
down in a hollow, back of his dwelling. When they parted,
the senator put into his hand a ten-dollar bill.

" It 's for her," he said, briefly.

" Ay, ay," said John, with equal conciseness.

They shook hands, and parted.

LIFE AMOSG THE LOWLY. 113

CHAPTEE X.

THE PROPERTY IS CARRIED OFF.

^ HE February morning looked gray and drizzling
through the window of Uncle Tom's cabin. It
looked on downcast faces, the images of mournful
hearts. The little table stood out before the fire,
o. covered with an ironing-cloth ; a coarse but clean
shirt or two, fresh from the iron, hung on the back of a chair
by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another spread out before her
on the table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed every fold and
every hem, with the most scrupulous exactness, every now and
then raising her hand to her face to wipe off the tears that were
coursing down her cheeks.

Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his
head leaning upon his hand ; -- but neither spoke. It was yet
early, and the children lay all asleep together in their little rude
trundle-bed.

Tom, who had, to the full, the gentle, domestic heart, which,
woe for them ! has been a peculiar characteristic of his unhappy
race, got up and walked silently to look at his children.

" It 's the last time," he said.

Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and over
on the coarse shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it
and finally setting her iron suddenly down with a despairing
plunge, she sat down to the table, and " lifted up her voice and
wept."

" S'pose we must he resigned ; but, 0 Lord ! how ken I 'i
If I know'd anything whar you 's goin', or how they 'd sarve
you ! Missis says she '11 try and 'deem ye, in a year or two ;
but Lor ! nobody never comes up that goes down thar ! They
kills 'em ! I 've hearn 'em tell how dey works 'em up on dem
ar plantations."

" There '11 be the same God there, Chloe, that there is
here."

114

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

; Well," said Aunt Cliloe, " s'pose

dere will ; but de Lord
I don't seem to get no

lets dreiful tilings happen, sometimes,
comfort dat way."

" I 'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; "nothin' can go no
furder than he lets it ; — and thar 's one thing I can thank him
for. It 's me that 's sold and going down, and not you nur the
chil'en. Here you 're safe ; — what comes will come only ou
me ; and the Lord, he '11 help me, — I know he will."

Ah, brave, manly heart, — smothering thine own sorrow, to
comfort thy beloved ones ! Tom spoke with a thick utterance,
and with a bitter choking in his throat, — but he spoke brave
a?id strong.

" Let 's think on our marcies ! " he added, tremulously, as J '
he was quite sure he needed to think on them very hard iil
deed.

" Marcies ! " said Aunt Chloe ; " don't see no marcy in 't !
't an't right ! 't an't right it should be so ! Mas'r never ought
ter left it so that ye could be took for his debts. Ye 've arnf
him all he gets for ye, twice over. He owed ye yer freedom,
and ought ter gin 't to yer years ago. Mebbe he can't help
himself now, but I feel it 's wrong. Nothing can't beat that

TOM AND HIS CHILDREN

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 115

ar out o' mo. Sich a faithful crittur as ye Ve been, — and
allers sot his business 'fore yer own every way, — and reckoned
on him more than yer own wife and chil'en ! Them as sells
heart's love and heart's blood, to get out thar scrapes, de
Lord '11 be up to 'em ! "

" Chloe ! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhaps
jest the last time we '11 ever have together ! And I '11 tell ye,
Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word agin Mas'r. Warn't he
put in my arms a baby 1 — it 's natur I should think a heap of
him. And he could n't be spected to think so much of poor
Tom. Mas'rs is used to havin' all these yer things done for
'em, and nat'lly they don't think so much on 't. They can't
be spected to, no way. Set him 'longside of other Mas'rs, —
who 's had the treatment and the livin' I 've had 1 And he
never would have let this yer come on me, if he could have
seed it aforehand. I know he would n't."

" Wai, any way, thar 's wrong about it someivhar" said Aunt
Chloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant
trait ; " I can't jest make out whar 't is, but thar 's wrong some-
whar, I 'm dar o' that."

" Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above, — he 's above all,
— thar don't a sparrow fall without him."

" It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter," said
Aunt Chloe. " But dar 's no use talkin' ; I '11 jes wet up de
corn-cake, and get ye one good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows
when you '11 get another."

In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold
south, it must be remembered that all the instinctive affections
of that race are peculiarly strong. Their local attachments are
very abiding. They are not naturally daring and enterprising,
but home-loving and affectionate. Add to this all the terrors
with which ignorance invests the unknown, and add to this,
again, that selling to the south is set before the negro from
childhood as the last severity of punishment. The threat that
terrifies more than whipping or torture of any kind is the threat
of being sent down river. We have ourselves heard this feel-
ing expressed by them, and seen the unaffected horror with
which they will sit in their gossiping hours, and tell frightful,
stories of that " down river," which to them is

" That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns."

A missionary among the fugitives in Canada told us that

116 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

many of the fugitives confessed themselves to have escaped
from comparatively kind masters, and that they were induced
to brave the perils of escape, in almost every case, by the des-
perate horror with which they regarded being sold south, — a
doom which was hanging either over themselves or their hus-
bands, their wives or children. This nerves the African,
naturally patient, timid, and unenterprising, with heroic cour-
age, and leads him to suiter hunger, cold, pain, the perils of
the wilderness, and the more dread penalties of recapture.

The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs.
Shelby had excused Aunt Chloe's attendance at the great house
that morning. The poor soul had expended all her little en-
ergies on this farewell feast, — had killed and dressed her
choicest chicken, and prepared her corn-cake with scrupulous
exactness, just to her husband's taste, and brought out certain
mysterious jars on the mantel-piece, some preserves that were
never produced except on. extreme occasions.

" Lor, Pete," said Mose, triumphantly, " han't we got a bus-
ter of a breakfast ! " at the same time catching at a fragment of
the chicken.

Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on, the ear. " Thar
now ! crowing over the last breakfast yer poor daddy 's gwine
to have to home ! "

" 0, Chloe ! " said Tom, gently.

" Wai, I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in.
her apron ; " I 's so tossed about, it makes me act ugly."

The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and
then at their mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes,
began an imperious, commanding cry.

" Thar ! " said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and taking up
the baby; "now I 's done, I hope, — now do eat something.
This yer 's my nicest chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have some,
poor critturs ! Yer mammy 's been cross to yer."

The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with
great zeal for the eatables ; and it was well they did so, as
otherwise there would have been very little performed to any
purpose by the party.

" ^ow," said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, " I
must put up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he '11 take 'em all
away. I know thar ways, — mean as dirt, they is ! Wai,
now, yer flannels for rhumatis is in this corner ; so be car'ful,
'cause there won't nobody make ye no more. Then here 's yei

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 117

old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off these yer
stockings last night, and put de hall in 'em to mend with.
But Lor ! who '11 ever mend for ye 1 " and Aunt Chloe, again
overcome, laid her head on the box side, and sobbed. " To
think on 't ! no crittur to do for ye, sick or well ! I don't
railly think I ought ter be good now ! "

The boys, having eaten everything there was on the break-
fast-table, began now to take some thought of the case ; and,
seeing their mother crying, and their father looking very sad,
•began to whimper and put their hands to their eyes. Uncle
Tom had the baby on his knee, and was letting her enjoy
herself to the utmost extent, scratching his face and pulling
his hair, and occasionally breaking out into clamorous explo-
sions of delight, evidently arising out of her own internal re-
flections.

"Ay, crow away, poor crittur!" said Aunt Chloe; "ye '11
have to come to it, too ! ye '11 live to see yer husband sold, or
mebbe be sold yerself ; and these yer boys, they 's to be sold,
I s'pose, too, jest like as not, when dey gets good for somethin' ;
an't no use in niggers havin' nothin' ! "

Here one of the boys called out, " Thar 's Missis a-comin'
in!"

" She can't do no good ; what 's she coming for? " said Aunt
Chloe.

Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in a
manner decidedly gruff and crusty. She did not seem to notice
either the action or the manner. She looked pale and. anxious.

"Tom," she said, "I come to- "and stopping suddenly,
and regarding the silent group, she sat down in the chair, and,
covering her face with her handkerchief, began to sob.

"Lor, now, Missis, don't — don't ! " said Aunt Chloe, burst-
ing out in her turn ; and for a few moments they all wept in
company. And in those tears they all shed together, the high
and the lowly, melted away all the heart-burnings and anger
of the oppressed. O, ye who visit the distressed, do ye know
that everything your money can buy, given with a cold, averted
face, is not worth one honest tear shed in real sympathy ?

" My good fellow," said Mrs. Shelby, " I can't give you any-
thing to do you any good. If I give you money, it will only be
taken from you. But I tell you solemnly, and before God, that
I will keep trace of you, and bring you back as soon as I can
command the money ;• — and, till then, trust in God ! "

118 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was coming, and
then an unceremonious kick pushed open the door. Haley stood
there in very ill humor, having ridden hard the night before,
and being not at all pacified by his ill success in recapturing
his prey.

" Come," said he, "ye nigger, ye 'r ready? Servant, ma'am ! "
said he, taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby.

Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting up, looked
gruffly on the trader, her tears seeming suddenly turned to
sparks of fire.

Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and raised
up his heavy box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in
her arms to go with him to the wagon, and the children, still
crying, trailed on behind.

Mrs. Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained him for a
few moments, talking with him in an earnest manner ; and
while she was thus talking, the whole family party proceeded
to a wagon, that stood ready harnessed at the door. A crowd
of all the old and young hands on the place stood gathered
around it, to bid farewell to their old associate. Tom had been
looked up to, both as a head servant and a Christian teacher,
by all the place, and there was much honest sympathy and
grief .about him, particularly among the women.

"Why, Chloe, you bar it better 'n we do ! " said one of the
women, who had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy
calmness with which Aunt Chloe stood by the wagon.

" I 's done my tears ! " she said, looking grimly at the trader,
who was coming up. " I does not feel to cry 'fore dat ar old
limb, no how ! "

" Get in ! " said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the
crowd of servants, who looked at him with lowering brows.

Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the wagon-
seat a heavy pair of shackles, made them fast around each
ankle.

A smothered groan of indignation ran through the whole
circle, and Mrs. Shelby spoke from the veranda, -

" Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unneces-

sary."

" Don' know, ma'am ; I 've lost one five hundred dollars from
this yer place, and I can't afford to run no more risks."

" What else could she spect on him 1 " said Aunt Chloe,
indignantly, while the two boys, who now seemed to compre-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 119

hend at once their father's destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing
and groaning vehemently.

" I 'm sorry," said Torn, " that Mas'r George happened to *oe
away."

George had gone to spend two or three days with a com-
panion on a neighboring estate, and having departed early in
the morning, before Tom's misfortune had been made public,
had left without hearing of it.

" Give my love to Mas'r George," he said, earnestly.

Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful
look, fixed to the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away.

Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home. He had sold Tom
under the spur of a driving necessity, to get out of the power
of a man whom he dreaded, — and his lirst feeling, after the
consummation of the bargain, had been that of relief. But his
wife's expostulations awoke his half-slumbering regrets ; and
Tom's manly disinterestedness increased the unpleasantness of
his feelings. It was in vain that he said to himself that he
had a right to do it, — that everybody did it, — and that some
did it without even the excuse of necessity ; — he could not
satisfy his own feelings ; and that he might not witness the
unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a short
business tour up the country, hoping that all would be ovei-
before he returned.

Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling
past every old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate were
fairly passed, and they found themselves out on the open pike.
After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up
at the door of a blacksmith's shop, when, taking out with him
a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into the shop, to have a little
alteration in them.

" These yer 's a little too small for his build," said Haley,
showing the fetters, and pointing out to Tom.

" Lor ! now, if thar an't Shelby's Tom. He han't sold him,
now ] " said the smith.

" Yes, he has," said Haley.

"Now, ye don't! well, reely," said the smith, "who'd a
thought it ! Why, ye need n't go to fetterin' him up this yer
way. He 's the faithfullest, best crittur — "

_" Yes, yes," said Haley ; "but your good fellers are just the
critturs to want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as does n't care
whar they go, and shifless, drunken ones, as don't care fbi

120 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

nothin', they '11 stick by, and like as not be rather pleased to be
toted round ; but these yer prime fellers, they hates it like sin.
No way but to fetter 'em ; got legs — they '11 use 'em, — no
mistake."

" Well," said the smith, feeling among his tools, " theni
plantations down thar, stranger, an't jest the place a Kentuck
nigger wants to go to ; they dies thar tol'able fast, don't
they 1 "

" Wai, yes, tol'able fast, ther dying is ; what with the
'climating and one thing and another, they dies so as to keep
the market up pretty brisk," said Haley.

" Wai, now, a feller can't help thinkin.' it 's a mighty pity
to have a nice, quiet, likely feller, as good un as Tom is, go
down to be fairly ground up on one of them ar sugar planta-
tions."

" Wai, he 's got a fa'r chance. I promised to do well by
him. I '11 get him in house-servant in some good old family,
and then, if he stands the fever and 'climating, he '11 have a
berth good as any nigger ought ter ask for."

" He leaves his wife and chil'en up here, s'pose ? "

" Yes ; but he '11 get another thar. Lord, thar 's women
enough everywhar," said Haley.

Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the shop
while this conversation was going on. Suddenly he heard the
quick, short click of a horse's hoof behind him ; and, before
he could fairly awake from his surprise, young Master George
sprang into the wagon, threw his arms tumultuously round his
neck, and was sobbing and scolding with energy.

" I declare, it 's real mean ! I don't care what they say, any
of 'em ! It 's a nasty, mean shame ! If I was a man, they
shouldn't do it, — they should not, so!" said George, with a
kind of subdued howl.

" 0, Mas'r George ! this does me good ! " said Tom. " I
could n't bar to go off without seein' ye ! It does me real good,
ye can't tell ! " Here Tom made some movement of his feet,
and George's eye fell on the fetters.

" What a shame ! " he exclaimed, lifting his hands. " I '11
knock that old fellow down, — I will ! "

" No, you won't, Mas'r George ; and you must not talk so
loud. It won't help me any, to anger him."

" Well, I won't, then, for your sake ; but only to think of it,
• — is n't it a shame ? They never sent for me, nor sent me

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 121

any word, and, if it had n't been for Tom Lincon, I should n't
have heard it. 1 tell you, I blew 'em up well, all of 'em, at
home ! "

" That ar was n't right, I 'm 'feared, Mas'r George."
" Can't help it ! I say it 's a shame ! Look here, Uncle
Tom," said he, turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a
mysterious tone, " / 've brought you my dollar ! "

" 0, I could n't think o' takin' on 't, Mas'r George, no ways
in the world ! " said Tom, quite moved.

" But you shall take it ! " said George ; " look here, — I told
Aunt Chloe 1 'd do it, and she advised me just to make a hole
in it, and put a string through, so you could hang it round
your neck, and keep it out of sight ; else this mean scamp
would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want to blow him up !
it would do me good ! "

" No, don't, Mas'r George, for it won't do me any good."
"Well, I won't, for your sake," said George, busily tying
his dollar round Tom's neck ; " but there, now, button your
coat tight over it, and keep it, and remember, every time you
see it, that I '11 come down after you, and bring you back.
Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it. I told her not
to fear ; I '11 see to it, and I '11 tease father's life out, if he
don't do it."

" 0, Mas'r George, ye must n't talk so 'bout yer father ! "
" Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad."
" And now, Mas'r George," said Tom, " ye must be a good
boy ; 'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep
close to yer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of them foolish
ways boys has of gettin' too big to mind their mothers. Tell
ye what, Mas'r George, the Lord gives good many things twice
over ; but he don't give ye a mother but once. Ye '11 never
see sich another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hun-
dred years old. So, now, you hold on to her, and grow up,
and be a comfort to her, tnar 's my own good boy, — you will
now, won't ye ? "

" Yes, I will, Uncle Tom," said George, seriously.
"And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young
boys, when they conies to your age, is wilful, sometimes, --it 's
natur they should be. But real gentlemen, such as I hopes
you '11 be, never lets fall no words that is n't 'spectful to thar
parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George 1 "

" No, indoed, Uncle Tom ; you always did give me good
advice."

122 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

"I's older, ye know," said Tom, stroking the boy's fine
curly head with his large, strong hand, but speaking in a voice
as tender as a woman's, " and I sees all that 's bound up ir
you. 0, Mas'r George, you has everything, — 1'arnin', privi-
leges, readin', writin', — and you '11 grow up to be a great,
learned, good man, and all the people on the place and your
mother and father '11 be so proud on ye ! Be a good Mas'r,
like yer father ; and be a Christian, like yer mother. 'Member
yer Creator in the days o' yer youth, Mas'r George."

" I '11 be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you," said George.
" I 'm going to be a first-rater ; and don't you be discouraged.
I '11 have you back to the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe
this morning, I '11 build your house all over, and you shall
have a room for a parlor with a carpet on it, when I 'm a man.
0, you '11 have good times yet ! "

Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his
hands.

" Look here, now, Mister," said George, with an air of great
superiority, as he got out, " I shall let father and mother know
how you treat Uncle Tom ! "

"You're welcome," said the trader.

" I should think you 'd be ashamed to spend all your life
buying men and women, and chaining them, like cattle ! I
should think you 'd feel mean ! " said George.

" So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women,
I 'm as good as they is," said Haley ; " 't an't any meaner sellin'
on 'em, than 't is buyin' ! "

" I '11 never do either, when I 'm a man," said George ,
'' I 'm ashamed, this day, that I 'm a Kentuckian. I always
was proud of it before " ; and George sat very straight on his
horse, and looked round with an air, as if he expected the state
would be impressed with his opinion.

" Well, good by, Uncle Tom ; keep a stiff upper lip," said
George.

" Good by, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and
admiringly at him. " God Almighty bless you ! Ah ! Ken-
tucky han't got many like you ! " he said, in the fulness of his
heart, as the frank, boyish face was lost to his view. Away
he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter of his horse's heels
died away, the last sound or sight of his home. But over his
heart there seemed to be a warm spot, where those young
hands had placed that precious dollar. Tom put up his hand..,
ard held it close to his heart.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

•'',Now, I tell ye what, Tom," said Haley, as he came up
to the wagon, and threw in the handcuffs, " I mean to start
fa'r with ye, as I gen'ally do with my niggers ; and I '11 tell
ye now, to begin with, you treat me fa'r, and I '11 treat you.
t'a'r ; I an't never hard on my niggers. Calculates to do the
best for 'em I can. Now, ye see, you 'd better jest settle down
comfortable, and not be tryin' no tricks ; because nigger's tricks
of all sorts I 'm up to, and it 's no use. If niggers is quiet,
and don't try to get off, they has good times with me ; and if
they don't, why, it 's thar fault, and not mine."

Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions of
running off. In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a super-
fluous one to a man with a great pair of iron fetters orj his feet.
But Mr. Haley had got in the habit of commencing his relations
with his stock with little exhortations of this nature, calculated,
as he deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and confidence, and pre-
vent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes.

And here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, to pur-
sue the fortunes of other characters in our story.

124 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR.

CHAPTEE XI.

IN WHICH PROPERTY GETS INTO AN IMPROPER STATE OP MIND.

was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveller
alighted at the door of a small country hotel, in the
village of N— — , in Kentucky. In the bar-room
he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company,
whom stress of weather had driven to harbor, and
the place presented the usual scenery of such reunions. Great,
taD, raw-boned Kentuckians, attired in hunting-shirts, and
trailing their loose joints over a vast extent of territory, with
the easy lounge peculiar to the race, — rifles stacked away in
the corner, shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little
negroes, all rolled together in the corners, — were the char-
acteristic features in the picture. At each end of the fireplace
sat a long-legged gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his hat
on his head, and the heels of his muddy boots reposing sub-
limely on the mantel-piece, — a position, we will inform our
readers, decidedly favorable to the turn of reflection incident to
western taverns, where travellers exhibit a decided preference
for this particular mode of elevating their understandings.

Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his coun-
trymen, was great of stature, good-natured, and loose-jointed,
with an enormous shock of hair on his head, and a great tall
hat on the top of that.

In fact, everybody in the room bore on his head this char
acteristic emblem of man's sovereignty ; whether it were felt
hat, palm-leaf, greasy beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it re-
posed with true republican independence. In truth, it appeared
to be the characteristic mark of every individual. Some wore
them tipped rakishly to one side, --these were your men of
humor, jolly, free-and-easy dogs ; some had them jammed in-
dependently down over their noses, — these were your hard
characters, thorough men, who, when they wore their hats,
wanted to wear them, and to wear them just as they had a

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 125

mind to ; there were those who had them set far over back, -
wide awake men, who wanted a clear prospect ; while careless
men, who did not know, or care, how their hats sat, had them
shaking about in all directions. The various hats, in fact, were
quite a Shakespearian study.

Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and wit?;
no redundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither
and thither, without bringing to pass any very particular re-
sults, except expressing a generic willingness to turn over
everything in creation generally for the benefit of Mas'r and his
guests. Add to this picture a jolly, crackling, rollicking fire,
going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney, -- the outer door
and every window being set wide open, and the calico window-
curtain flopping and snapping in a good stiff breeze of damp
raw air, — and you have an idea of the jollities of a Kentucky
tavern.

Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of
the doctrine of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His
fathers were mighty hunters, --men who lived in the woods,
and slept under the free, open heavens, with the stars to hold
their candles ; and their descendant to this day always acts as
if the house were his camp, -- wears his hat at all hours,
tumbles himself about, and puts his heels on the tops of chairs
or mantel-pieces, just as his father rolled on the greensward,
and put his upon trees and logs, — keeps all the windows and
doors open, winter and summer, that he may get air enough for
his great lungs, — calls everybody " stranger," with nonchalant
bonhommie, and is altogether the frankest, easiest, most jovial
creature living.

Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller
entered. He was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with
a round, good-natured countenance, and something rather fussy
and particular in his appearance. He was very careful of his
valise and umbrella, bringing them in with his own hands,
and resisting, pertinaciously, all offers from the various servants
to relieve him of them. He looked round the bar-room with
rather an anxious air, and, retreating with his valuables to the
warmest corner, disposed them under his chair, sat down, and
looked rather apprehensively up at the worthy whose heels
illastrated the end of the mantel-piece, who was spitting from
right to left, with a courage and energy rather alarming ta
gentlemen of weak nerves and particular habits.

126 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" I say, stranger, hew are ye ? " said the aforesaid gentle-
man, firing an honorary salute of tobacco-juice in the direction
of the new arrival.

" Well, I reckon," was the reply of the other, as he dodged,
with some alarm, the threatening honor.

" Any news 1 " said the respondent, taking out a strip oi
tobacco and a large hunting-knife from his pocket.

" Not that I know of," said the man.

" Chaw ] " said the first speaker, handing the old gentleman
a bit of his tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air.

" No, thank ye, — it don't agree with me," said the little
man, edging off.

" Don't, eh ? " said the other, easily, and stowing away the
morsel in his own mouth, in order to keep up the supply of
tobacco-juice, for the general benefit of society.

The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever
his long-sided brother fired in his direction ; and this being
observed by his companion, he very good-naturedly turned his
artillery to another quarter, and proceeded to storm one of the
fire-irons with a degree of military talent fully sufficient to take
a city.

" What 's that 1 " said the old gentleman, observing some of
the company formed in a group around a large handbill.

" Nigger advertised ! " said one of the company, briefly.

Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman's name, rose up,
and, after carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceeded
deliberately to take out his spectacles and fix them on his nose ;
and, this operation being performed, read as follows : -

" Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said
George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair;
is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write; will
probably try to pass for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back
and shoulders; has been branded in his right hand with the let-
ter H.

" I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same
sum for satisfactory proof that he has been killed."

The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to end,
in a low voice, as if he were studying it.

The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire-
iron, as before related, now took down his cumbrous length,
and rearing aloft his tall form, walked up to the advertisement,
and very deliberately spit a full discharge of tobacco-juice
on it.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 127

" There 's my mind upon that ! " said he, briefly, and sat
down again.

" Why, now, stranger, what 's that for 1 " said mine host.

"I 'd do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he
was here," said the long man, coolly resuming his old employ-
ment of ciitting tobacco. "Any man that owns a boy like
that, and can't find any better way o' treating on him, deserves
to lose him. Such papers as these is a shame to Kentucky ;
that 's my mind right out, if anybody wants to know ! "

" Well, now, that 's a fact," said mine host, as he made an
entry in his book.

" I 've got a gang of boys, sir," said the long man, resuming
his attack on the fire-irons, " and I jest tells 'em, — ' Boys,'
says I, - - ' run now ! dig ! put ! jest when ye want to ! I
never shall come to look after you ! ' That 's the way I keep
mine. Let 'em know they are free to run any time, and it jest
breaks up their wanting to. More 'n all, I 've got free papers
for 'em all recorded, in case I gets keeled up any o' these times,
and they knows it ; and I tell ye, stranger, there an't a fellow
in our parts gets more out of his niggers than I do. Why, my
boys have been to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars' worth
of colts, and brought me back the money, all straight, time
and agin. It stands to reason they should. Treat 'em like
dogs, and you '11 have dogs' works and dogs' actions. Treat
"em like men, and you '11 have men's works." And the honest
drover, in his warmth, indorsed this moral sentiment by firing
a perfect feu de, joie at the fireplace.

" I think you 're altogether right, friend," said Mr. Wilson ;
" and this boy described here is a fine fellow, — no mistake
about that. He worked for me some half-dozen years in my
bagging factory, and he was my best hand, sir. He is an
ingenious fellow, too : he invented a machine for the cleaning •
of hemp, — a really valuable affair ; it 's gone into use in sev-
eral factories. His master holds the patent of it."

"I'll warrant ye," said the drover, "holds it and makes
money out of it, and then turns round and brands the boy in
his right hand. If I had a fair chance, I 'd mark him, I reckon,
so that he 'd carry it one while."

" These yer knowin' boys is allers aggravatin' and sarcy,"
said a coarse-looking fellow, from the other side of the room ;
" that 's why they gets cut up and marked so. If they behaved
themselves, they would n't."

128 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" That is to say, the Lord made 'em men, and it 's a hard
squeeze getting 'em down into beasts," said the drover, dryly.

" Bright niggers isn't no kind of 'vantage to their masters,"
continued the other, well intrenched, in a coarse, unconscious
obtuseness, from the contempt of his opponent ; " what 's the
use o' talents and them things, if you can't get the use on 'em
yourself1? Why, all the use they make on 't is to get round you.
1 've had one or two of these fellers, and I jest sold 'em dowi
river. I knew I 'd got to lose 'em, first or last, if I did n't."

" Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set, and
Jeave out their souls entirely," said the drover.

Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of
a small one-horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appear-
auce, and a well-dressed, gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with
a colored servant driving.

The whole party examined the new-comer with the interest
with which a set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine every
new-comer. He was very tall, with a dark, Spanish com-
plexion, tine, expressive black eyes, and close-curling hair, also
of a glossy blackness. His well-formed aquiline nose, straight
thin lips, and the admirable contour of his iinely formed limbs,
impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of some-
thing uncommon. He walked easily in among the company, and
".vita a nod indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk,
bowed to the company, and, with his hat in his hand, walked
up leisurely to the bar, and gave in his name as Henry Butler,
Oaklands, Shelby County. Turning, with an indifferent air,
he sauntered up to the advertisement, and read it over.

" Jim," he said to his man, " seems to me we met a boy
something like this, up at Bernan's, did n't we 1 "

" Yes, Mas'r," said Jim, " only I an't sure about the hand."

" Well, I did n't look, of course," said the stranger, with a
careless yawn. Then, walking up to the landlord, he desired
him to furnish him with a private apartment, as he had some
writing to do immediately.

The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven
negroes, old and young, male and female, little and big, were
soon whizzing about, like a covey of partridges, bustling, hur-
rying, treading on each other's toes, and tumbling over each
other, in their zeal to get Mas'r's room ready, while he seated
himself easily on a chair in the middle of the room, and en-
tered into conversation with the man who sat next to him.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

129

The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance
of the stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and
uneasy curiosity. He seemed to himself to have met and been
acquainted with him somewhere, but he could not recollect.

Every few moments, when the man spoke, or moved, or smiled.
he would start and fix his eyes on him, and then suddenly
withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes met his with such
unconcerned coolness. At last, a sudden recollection seemed to
flash upon him, for he stared at the stranger with such an air
if blank amazement and alarm, that he walked up to him. •

130 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Mr. Wilson, I think," said he, in a tone of recognition, and
extending his hand. u I beg your pardon, I did n't recollect
you before. I see you remember me, — Mr. Butler, of Oak-
lands, Shelby County."

"Ye — yes — yes, sir," said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking
in a divam.

Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that MasYs
room was ready.

" Jim, see to the trunks," said the gentleman, negligently ;
then addressing himself to Mr. Wilson, he added, — " I should
like to have a few moments' conversation with you on business,
in my room, if you please."

Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep ;
and they proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-
made fire was crackling, and various servants flying about, put-
ting finishing touches to the arrangements.

When all was done, and the servants departed, the young
man deliberately locked the door, and putting the key in his
pocket, faced about, and folding his arms on his bosom, looked
Mr. Wilson full in the face.

" George ! " said Mr. Wilson.

" Yes, George," said the young man.

" I could n't have thought it ! "

" I am pretty well disguised, I fancy," said the young man,
with a smile. " A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin
a genteel brown, and I 've dyed my hair black ; so you see I
don't answer to the advertisement at all."

" 0, George ! but this is a dangerous game you are playing.
I could not have advised you to it."

" I can do it on my own responsibility," said George, with
the same proud smile.

We remark, en passant, that George was, by his father's
side, of white descent. His mother was one of those unfor-
tunates of her race, marked out by personal beauty to be the
slave of the passions of her possessor, and the mother of chil-
dren who may never know a father. From one of the proud-
est families in Kentucky he had inherited a set of fine Euro-
pean features, and a high, indomitable spirit. From his mother
he had received only a slight mulatto tinge, amply compensated
by its accompanying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the
\int of the skin and the color of his hair had metamorphosed
'aim into the Spanish-looking fellow he then appeared ; and aa

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 131

gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly manners had always
been perfectly natural to him, IK; found no difficulty in playing
the bold part he had adopted, — that of a gentleman travelling
with his domestic.

Mr. VVilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cau-
tious old gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing,
as John Bunyan hath it, " much tumbled up and down in his,
mind," and divided between his wish to help George, and a cer-»
tain confused notion of maintaining law and order : so, as he
shambled about, he delivered himself as follows : -

"Well, George, I s'pose you're running away, -- leaving
your lawful master, George, — (I don't wonder at it), — at the
same time, I'm sorry, George, — yes, decidedly,--! think I
must say that, George, — it 's my duty to tell you so."

" Why are you sorry, sir 1 " said George, calmly.

" Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition
to the laws of your country."

" My country ! " said George, with a strong and bitter em-
phasis ; " what country have I, but the grave, — and I wish to
God that I was laid there ! "

" Why, George, no, — no, — it won't do ; this way of talk-
ing is wicked, -- unscripturaL George, you've got a hard
master, -- in fact, he is — well, he conducts himself reprehensi-
bly, --I can't pretend to defend him. But you know how
the angel commanded Hagar to return to her mistress, and sub-
mit herself under her hand ; and the apostle sent back Onesi-
mus to his master."

" Don't quote Bible at me that way, Mr. Wilson," said
George, with a flashing eye, " don't ! for my wife is a Chris-
tian, and I mean to be, if ever I get to where I can ; but to
quote Bible to a fellow in my circumstances, is enough to make
him give it up altogether. I appeal to God Almighty, — I 'm
willing to go with the case to him, and ask him if I do wrong
to seek my freedom."

" These feelings are quite natural, George," said the good-^
natured man, blowing his nose. " Yes, they 're natural, but it
is my duty not to encourage 'em in you. Yes, my boy, I 'm
sorry for you, now; it's a bad case, --very bad; but the
apostle says, ' Let every one abide in the condition in which
he is called.' We must all submit to the indications of Provi-
dence, George, — don't you see 1 "

George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded

132

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

tightly over his broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his
lips.

" I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and
take you a prisoner away from your wife and children, and
want to keep you all your life hoeing corn for them, if you 'd
think it your duty to abide in the condition in which you were
called. I rather think that you 'd think the first stray horse
you could find an indication of Providence, — should n't
you ? "

The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at this illus-
tration of the case ; but, though not much of a reasoner, he
had the sense in which some logicians on this particular sub-
ject do not excel, — that of saying nothing, where nothing
could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking his umbrella,
and folding and patting down all the creases in it, he proceeded
on with his exhortations in a general way.

" You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 133

your friend ; and whatever I 've said, I 've said for your good.
Now, here, it seems to me, you 're running an awful risk.
You can't hope to carry it out. If you 're taken, it will be
worse with you than ever ; they '11 only abuse you, and half
kill you, and sell you down river."

" Mr. Wilson, I know all this," said George. " I do run a
risk, but — " he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pis-
tols and a bowie-knife. " There ! " he said, " I 'm ready for
'em ! Down south I never will go. No ! if it conies to that,
I can earn myself at least six feet of free soil, — the first and
last I shall ever own in Kentucky ! "

" Why, George, this state of mind is awful ; it 's getting
really desperate, George. I 'm concerned. Going to break the
laws of your country ! "

" MY country again ! Mr. Wilson, you have a country ;
but what country have /, or any one like me, born of slave
mothers] What laws are there for us? We don't make
them, — we don't consent to them, - - we have nothing to do
with them ; all they do for us is to crush us, and keep us down.
Haven't I heard your Fourth- of- July speeches] Don't you
tell us all, once a year, that governments derive their just
power from the consent of the governed ] Can't a fellow think,
that hears such things ? Can't he put this and that together,
and see what it comes to 1 "

Mr. Wilson's mind was one of those that may not unaptly
be represented by a bale of cotton, — downy, soft, benevolently
fuzzy and confused. He really pitied George with all his
heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy perception of the
style of feeling that agitated him ; but he deemed it his duty
to go on talking good to him, with infinite pertinacity.

" George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a
friend, you 'd better not be meddling with such notions ; they
are bad, George, very bad, for boys in your condition, -
very " ; and Mr. Wilson sat down to a table, and began ner-
vously chewing the handle of his umbrella.

" See here, now, Mr. Wilson," said George, coming up and
seating himself determinately down in front of him ; " look at
me, now. Don't I sit before you, every way, just as much a
man as you are 1 Look at my face, — look at my hands, - - look
at my body," and the young man drew himself up proudly ;
" why am I not a man, as much as anybody ] Well, Mr. Wil-
son, hear what I can tell you. I had a father — one of your

134 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Kentucky gentlemen — who did n't think enough of me to
keep rue from being sold with his dogs and horses, to satisfy
the estate, when he died, I saw my mother put up at sheriff's
sale, with her seven children. They were sold before her eyes,
one by one, all to different masters ; and I was the youngest.
She came and kneeled down before old Mas'r, and begged him
to buy her with me, that she might have at least one child with,
her ; and he kicked her away with his heavy boot. I saw*,
him do it ; and the last that I heard was her moans and
screams, when I was tied to his horse's neck, to be carried off
to his place."

" Well, then 1 "

" My master traded with one of the men, and bought my
oldest sister. She was a pious, good girl, — a member of the
Baptist church, — and as handsome as my poor mother had
been. She was well brought up, and had good manners. At
first, I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend near me.
I was soon sorry for it. Sir. I have stood at the door and
heard her whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into
my naked heart, and I could n't do anything to help her ; and
she was whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decent Christian
life, such as your laws give no slave girl a right to live ; and at
last I saw her chained with a trader's gang, to be sent to mar-
ket in Orleans, --sent there for nothing else but that, — and
that 's the last I know of her. Well, I grew up, — long years
and years, - - no father, no mother, no sister, not a living soul
that cared for me more than a dog ; nothing but whipping,
scolding, starving. Why, sir, I 've been so hungry that I have
been glad to take the bones they threw to their dogs ; and yet,
when I was a little fellow, and laid awake whole nights and
cried, it was n't the hunger, it was n't the whipping, I cried for.
No, sir ; it was for my mother and my sisters, — it was because
1 had n't a friend to love me on earth. I never knew what peace
or comfort was. I never had a kind word spoken to me till I
came to work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me
well ; you encouraged me to do well, and to learn to read and
write, and to try to make something of myself; and God
knows how grateful I am for it. Then, sir, I found my wife ;
you 've seen her, -- you know how beautiful she is. When I
found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely could be-
lieve I was alive, I was so happy ; and, sir, she is as good as
she is beautiful. But now what ? Why, now comes my mas-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 135

ter, takes me right away from my work, and my friends, and
all I like, and grinds me down into the very dirt ! And why 1
Because, he says, I forgot who I was ; he says, to teach me
that I am only a nigger ! After all, and last of all, he comes
between me and my wife, and says I shall give her up, and live
with another woman. And all this your laws give him power
to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it ! There
is n't one of all these things, that have broken the hearts of my
oother and my sister, and my wife and myself, but your laws
ilow, and give every man power to do, in Kentucky, and none
^an say to him nay ! Do you call these the laws of my coun-
try 1 Sir, I have n't any country, any more than I have nny
father. But I 'm going to have one. I don't want anything
of your country, except to be let alone, — to go peaceably out
of it ; and when I get to Canada, where the laws will own me
and protect me, that shall be my country, and its laws I will
obey. But if any man tries to stop me, let him take care, for
I am desperate. I '11 fight for my liberty to the last breath I
breathe. You say your fathers did it ; if it was right for
them, it is right for me ! "

This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, and
partly walking up and down the room, — delivered with tears,
and flashing eyes, and despairing gestures, - - was altogether
too much for the good-natured old body to whom it was ad-
dressed, who had pulled out a great yellow silk pocket-handker-
chief, and was mopping up his face with great energy.

" Blast 'em all ! " he suddenly broke out. " Have n't I al-
ways said so, — the infernal old cusses ! I hope I an't swear-
ing, now. Well ! go ahead, George, go ahead ; but be care-
ful, my boy ; don't shoot anybody, George, unless — well -
you 'd better not shoot, I reckon ; at least, I would n't hit
anybody, you know. Where is your wife, George ? " he added,
as he nervously rose, and began walking the room.

" Gone, sir, gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord only
knows where ; — gone after the north star ; and when we ever
meet, or whether we meet at all in this world, no creature can
tell."

" Is it possible ! astonishing ! from such a kind family?"

" Kind families get in debt, and the laws of our country
allow them to sell the child out of its mother's bosom to pay
"its master's debts," said George, bitterly.

" Well, well," said the honest old man, fumbling in his

136 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

pocket. " I s'pose, perhaps, I an't following my judgment, — •
hang it, I ivont follow my judgment ! " he added, suddenly ;
"so here, George," and, taking out a roll of hills from his
pocket-book, he offered them to George.

" No, my kind, good sir ! " said George, " you 've done a
great deal for me, and this might get you into trouble. I have
.money enough, I hope, to take me as far as I need it."

" No ; but you must, George. Money is a great help every-
where ; — can't have too much, if you get it honestly. Take
'it, — do take it, now, - - do, my boy ! "

" On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time,
I will," said George, taking up the money.

" And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this
way ] — not long or far, I hope. It 's well carried on, but too
bold. And this black fellow, — who is he ? "

" A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago.
He heard, after he got there, that his master was so angry at
him for going off that he had whipped his poor old mother ;
and he has come all the way back to comfort her, and get a
chance to get her away."

"Has he got her?"

" Not yet ; he has been hanging about the place, and found
no chance yet. Meanwhile, he is going with me as far as
Ohio, to put me among friends that helped him, and then he
will come back after her."

" Dangerous, very dangerous ! " said the old man.

George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully.

The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort
of innocent wonder.

" George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You
hold up your head, and speak and move like another man,"
said Mr. Wilson.

" Because I 'm a freeman ! " said George, proudly. " Yes,
sir ; I 've said Mas'r for the last time to any man. J 'mfree ! "

" Take care ! You are not sure, — you may be taken."

" All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that,
Mr. Wilson," said George.

" I 'm perfectly dumfoundered with your boldness ! " said
Mr. Wilson, — " to come right here to the nearest tavern ! "

" Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that
they will never think of it ; they will look for me on ahead,
and you yourself would n't know me. Jim's master don't live

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 137

in this county ; he is n't known in these parts. Besides, he is
given up ; nobody is looking after him, and nobody will take
me up from the advertisement, I think."

" JJut the mark in your hand 1 "

George drew off his glove, and showed a newly healed scar
in his hand.

" That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris's regard," he said,
scornfully. " A fortnight ago, he took it into his head to give
it to me, because he said he believed I should try to get away
one of these days. Looks interesting, does n't it 1 " he said,
drawing his glove on again.

" I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it, —
your condition and your risks ! " said Mr. Wilson.

" Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson ; at pres-
ent, it 's about up to the boiling point," said George.

" Well, my good sir," continued George, after a few mo-
ments' silence, " I saw you knew me ; I thought I 'd just have
this talk with you, lest your surprised looks should bring me
out. I leave early to-morrow morning, before daylight ; by to-
morrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I shall travel by
daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner-tables with
the lords of the land. So, good by, sir ; if you hear that I 'in
taken, you may know that I 'm dead ! "

George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the
air of a prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily,
and after a little shower of caution, he took his umbrella, and
fumbled his way out of the room.

George stood thoughtfully looking at the door, as the old
man closed it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind.
He hastily stepped to it, and, opening it, said, -

" Mr. Wilson, one word more."

The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before,
locked the door, and then stood for a few moments looking on1
the floor, irresolutely. At last, raising his head with a sudden
effort, -

" Mr. Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian in your
treatment of me, - - 1 want to ask one last deed of Christian
kindness of you."

" Well, George."

" Well, sir, — what you said was true. I am running a
dreadful risk. There is n't, on earth, a living soul to care if I
die," he added, drawing his breath hard, and speaking with a

138 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

great effort, -- "I shall be kicked out and buried like a dog,
and nobody '11 think of it a day after, — only my poor wife }
Poor soul ! she '11 mourn and grieve ; and if you 'd only con-
trive, Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her. She gave if
to me for a Christmas present, poor child ! Give it to her, and
tell her I loved her to the last. Will you 1 Will you ] " he
added, earnestly.

"Yes, certainly, -- poor fellow !" said the old gentleman,
taking the pin, with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in
his voice.

" Tell her one thing," said George ; " it 's my last wish, if
she can get to Canada, to go there. No matter how kind her
mistress is, — no matter how much she loves her home; beg
her not to go back, — for slavery always ends in misery. Tell
her to bring up our boy a free man, and then he won't suffer as
I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you 1 "

" Yes, George, I '11 tell her ; but I trust you won't die ; take
heart, - - you 're a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I
wish in my heart you were safe through, though, — that 's
What I do."

" Is there a God to trust in ] " said George, in such a tone
of bitter despair as arrested the old gentleman's words. " O,
I 've seen things all my life that have made me feel that there
can't be a God. You Christians don't know how these things
look to us. There 's a God for you, but is there any for us ? "

" 0, now, don't, — don't, my boy! " said the old man, almost
sobbing as he spoke ; " don't feel so ! There is, — there is ;
clouds and darkness are around about him, but righteousness
and judgment are the habitation of his throne. There 's a God,
George, — believe it ; trust in him, and I 'm sure he '11 help
you. Everything will be set right, — if not in this life, in
another."

The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man in-
vested him with a temporary dignity and authority, as he spoke.
George stopped his distracted walk up and down the room, stood
thoughtfully a moment, and then said, quietly, -

" Thank you for saying that, my good friend ; I '11 think oj

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 139

CHAPTEE XII.

SELECT INCIDENT OF LAWFUL TRADE.

"InRamah there was a voice heard, — weeping, and lamentation, and
great mourning ; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be com-
forted."

HALEY and Tom jogged onward in their
wagon, each, for a time, absorbed in his own re-
flections. Now, the reflections of two men sitting
side by side are a curious thing, — seated on the
same seat, having the same eyes, ears, hands, and
organs of all sorts, and having pass before their eyes the same
objects, — it is Avonderful what a variety we shall find in these
same reflections !

As, for example, Mr. Haley : he thought first of Tom's length,
and breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was
kept fat and in good case till he got him into market. He
thought of how he should make out his gang ; he thought of
the respective market value of certain supposititious men and
women and children who were to compose it, and other kindred
topics of the business ; then he thought of himself, and how
humane he was, that whereas other men chained their " niggers "
hand and foot both, he only put fetters on the feet, and left
Tom the use of his hands, as long as he behaved well ; and he
sighed to think how ungrateful human nature Avas, so that there
was even room to doiibt whether Tom appreciated his mercies.
He had been taken in so by " niggers " whom he had favored ;
but still he was astonished to consider how good-natured he yet
remained !

As to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfash-
ionable old book, which kept running through his head again
and again, as follows : " We have here no continuing city, but
we seek one to come ; wherefore God himself is not ashamed
to be called our God; for he hath prepared for us a city."
These words of an ancient volume, got up principally by

140 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" ignorant and unlearned men," have, through all time, kept
up, somehow, a strange sort of power over the minds of poor,
simple fellows, like Tom. They stir up the soul from its depths,
and rouse, as with trumpet call, courage, energy, and enthu-
siasm, where before was only the blackness of despair.

Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and
began looking over their advertisements, with absorbed interest.
He was not a remarkably fluent reader, and was in the habit of
reading in a sort of recitative half-aloud, by way of calling in
his ears to verify the deductions of his eyes. In this tone he
slowly recited the following paragraph : —

" EXECUTOR'S SALE, — NEGROES ! — Agreeably to order of court,
will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door,
in the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes : Ha-
gar, aged 60 ; John, aged 30 ; Ben, aged 21 ; Saul, aged 25 ; Albert,
aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate
of Jesse Blutchlbrd, Esq.

" SAMUEL MORRIS, ) 77 »

•« THOMAS FLINT, } *•"•*«•

" This yer I must look at," said he to Tom, for want of
somebody else to talk to. " Ye see, I 'm going to get up a
prime gang to take down with ye, Tom ; it '11 make it sociable
and pleasant like, — good company will, ye know. We must
drive right to Washington first and foremost, and then I '11 clap
you into jail, while I does the business."

Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly ; sim-
ply wondering, in his own heart, how many of these doomed
men had wives and children, and whether they would feel as
he did about leaving them. It is to be confessed, too, that
the naive, off-hand information that he was to be thrown into
jail by no means produced an agreeable impression on a poor
fellow who had always prided himself on a strictly honest and
upright course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess it, was
rather proud of his honesty, poor fellow, — not having very
much else to be proud of; — if he had belonged to some of
the higher walks of society, he, perhaps, would never have
been reduced to such straits. However, the day wore on,
and the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accom-
modated in Washington, — the one in a tavern, and the other
in a jail.

About eleven o'clock the next day, a mixed throng was

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 141

gathered around the court-house steps, — smoking, chewing,
spitting, swearing, and conversing, according to their respec-
tive tastes and turns, — waiting for the auction to commence.
The men and women to be sold sat in a group apart, talking in
a low tone to each other. The woman who had been adver-
tised by the name of Hagar was a regular African in feature
and figure. She might have been sixty, but was older than
that by hard work and disease, was partially blind, and some-
what crippled with rheumatism. By her side stood her only
remaining son, Albert, a bright-looking little fellow of fourteen
years. The boy was the only survivor of a large family, who
had been successively sold away from her to a southern mar-
ket. The mother held on to him with both her shaking hands,
and eyed with intense trepidation every one who walked up to
examine him.

" Don't be 'feard, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of the men,
" 1 spoke to Mas'r Thomas 'bout it, and he thought he might
manage to sell you in a lot both together."

" Dey need n't call me worn out yet," said she, lifting her
shaking hands. " I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour, -- 1 'm
wuth a buying, if I do come cheap ; — tell 'em dat ar, — you
tell 'em," she added, earnestly.

Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to the
old man, pulled his mouth open and looked in, felt of his teeth,
made him stand and straighten himself, bend his back, and
perform various evolutions to show his muscles; and then
passed on to the next, and put him through the same trial.
Walking up last to the boy, he felt of his arms, straightened
his hands, and looked at his fingers, and made him jump, to
show his agility.

" He an't gwine to be sold widout me ! " said the old woman,
with passionate eagerness ; " he and I goes in a lot together ;
I 's rail strong yet, Mas'r, and can do heaps o' work, — heaps
on it, Mas'r."

" On plantation] " said Haley, with a contemptuous glance.
" Likely story ! " and, as if satisfied with his examination, he
walked out and looked, and stood with his hands in his pocket,
his cigar in his mouth, and his hat cocked on one side, readj
for action.

" What think of 'em 1 " said a man who had been follow-
ing Haley's examination, as if to make up his own mind
from it.

142 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Wai," said Haley, spitting, " I shall put in, I think, for
the youngerly ones and the boy."

" They want to sell the boy and the old woman together,"
said the man.

" Find it a tight pull ; — why, she 's an old rack o' bones, —
not worth her salt."

" You would n't, then1?" said the man.

" Anybody 'd be a fool 't would. She 's half blind, crooked
with rheumatis, and foolish to boot."

" Some buys up these yer old critturs, and ses there 's a
sight more wear in 'em than a body 'd think," said the man,
reflectively.

" No go, 't all," said Haley ; " would n't take her for a
present, — fact, -- I 've seen, now."

" Wai, 't is kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her son,
— her heart seems so sot on him, — s'pose they fling her in
cheap."

" Them that 's got money to spend that ar way, it 's all
well enough. I shall bid off on that ar boy for a plantation-
hand ;-- wouldn't be bothered with her, no way, — not if
they 'd give her to me," said Haley.

" She '11 take on desp't," said the man.

" Nat'lly, she will," said the trader, coolly.

The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in
the audience ; and the auctioneer, a short, bustling, important
fellow, elbowed his way into the crowd. The old woman
drew in her breath, and caught instinctively at her son.

" Keep close to yer mammy, Albert, — close, — dey '11 put
us up togedder," she said.

" O, mammy, I 'ni 'feard they won't," said the boy.

" Dey must, child ; I can't live, no ways, if they don't,"
said the old creature, vehemently.

The stentorian tones of the auctioneer, calling out to clear
the way, now announced that the sale was about to commence.
A place was cleared, and the bidding began. The different
men on the list were soon knocked off at prices which showed
a pretty brisk demand in the market ; two of them fell k
Haley.

" Come now, young un," said the auctioneer, giving the boy
a toucli with his hammer, " be up and show your springs, now."

" Put us two up togedder, togedder, — do please, Mas'r,"
said the old woman, holding fast to her boy.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

143

" Be off," said the man, gruffly, pushing her hands away ;
" you come last. Now, darkey, spring " ; and, with the word,
he pushed the boy toward the block, while a deep, heavy groan
rose behind him. The boy paused, and looked back ; but there
was no time to stay, and, dashing the tears from his large,
bright eyes, he was up in a moment.

His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face raised an instant
competition, and half a dozen bids simultaneously met the ear
of the auctioneer. Anxious, half frightened, he looked from
side to side, as he heard the clatter of contending bids, — now

144 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

here, now there, — till the hammer fell. Haley had got him.
He was pushed from the block toward his new master, but
stopped oue moment, and looked back, when his poor old
mother, trembling in every limb, held out her shaking hands
toward him.

" Buy me too, Mas'r, for de dear Lord's sake ! — buy me, —
I shall die if you don't ! "

" You '11 die if I do, that 's the kink of it," said Haley, —
" no ! " And he turned on his heel.

The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The
man who had addressed Haley, and who seemed not destitute
of compassion, bought her for a trifle, and the spectators began
to disperse.

The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up in
one place together for years, gathered round the despairing old
mother, whose agony was pitiful to see.

"Couldn't dey leave me one? Mas'r allers said I should
have one, — he did," she repeated over and over, in heart-
broken tones.

" Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of the
men, sorrowfully.

" What good will it do 1 " said she, sobbing passionately.
" Mother, mother, — don't ! don't ! " said the boy. " They
say you 's got a good master."

" I don't care, — I don't care. 0, Albert ! 0, my boy, you 's
my last baby. Lord, how ken 1 1 "

" Come, take her off, can't some of ye 1 " said Haley, dryly ;
"don't do no good for her to go on that ar way."

The old men of the company, partly by persuasion and
partly by force, loosed the poor creature's last despairing hold,
and, as they led her off to her new master's wagon, strove to
comfort her.

" Now ! " said Haley, pushing his three purchases together,
and producing a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to
put on their wrists ; and fastening each handcuff to a long
chain, he drove them before him to the jail.

A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely deposited
on one of the Ohio boats. It was the commencement of his
gang, to be augmented, as the boat moved on, by various other
merchandise of the same kind, which he, or his agent, had
stored for him in various points along shore.

The La Belle Riviere, as brave and beautiful a boat as evei

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 145

walked the waters of her namesake river, was floating gayly
down the stream, under a brilliant sky, the stripes and stars
of free America waving and fluttering overhead ; the guards
crowded with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen walking and
enjoying the delightful day. All was full of life, buoyant and
rejoicing ; — all but Haley's gang, who were stored, with other
freight, on the lower deck, and who, somehow, did not seem to
appreciate their various privileges, as they sat in a knot, talking
to each other in low tones.

" Boys," said Haley, coming up, briskly, " I hope you keep-
up good heart, and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, ye see ; keep
stiff upper lip, boys ; do well by me, and I '11 do well by you."

The boys addressed responded the invariable " Yes, Mas'r,"
for ages the watchword of poor Africa ; but it 's to be owned
they did not look particularly cheerful ; they had their various
little prejudices in favor of wives, mothers, sisters, and chil-
dren, seen for the last time, — ami though "they that wasted
them required of them mirth," it was not instantly forthcoming.

" I 've got a wife," spoke out the article enumerated as
"John, aged thirty," and he- laid his chained hand on Tom's
knee, — " and she don't know a word about this, poor girl ! "

" Where does she live 1 " said Tom.

" In a tavern a piece down here," said John ; " I wish, now,
I could see her once more in this world," he added.

Poor John ! It ivas rather natural ; and the tears that fell,
as he spoke, came as naturally as if he had been a white man.
Tom drew a long breath from a sore heart, and tried, in his
poor way, to comfort him.

And overhead, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers, hus-
bands and wives ; and merry, dancing children moved round
among them, like so many little butterflies, and everything was
going on quite easy and comfortable.

" 0, mamma," said a boy, who had just come up from below,
" there 's a negro-trader on board, and he 's brought four or five
slaves down there."

" Poor creatures ! " said the mother, in a tone between grief
and indignation.

" What 's that ? " said another lady.

" Some poor slaves below," said the mother.

"And they 've got chains on," said the boy.

" What a shame to our country that such sights are to be
seen ! " said another lady.

146 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" O, there 's a great deal to be said on both sides of the sub-
ject," said a genteel woman, who sat at her state-room door
sewing, while her little girl and boy were playing round her.
" I 've been south, and I must say I think the negroes are bet-
ter off than they would be to be free."

" In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant," said
the lady to whose remark she had answered. " The most dread-
ful part of slavery, to my mind, is its outrages on the feelings
and affections, — the separating of families, for example."

" That is a bad thing, certainly," said the other lady, hold-
ing up a baby's dress she had just completed, and looking
intently on its trimmings ; " but then, I fancy, it don't occur
often."

" 0, it does," said the first lady, eagerly ; " I 've lived many
years in Kentucky and Virginia both, and I Ve seen enough to
make any one's heart sick. Suppose, ma'am, your two chil-
dren, there, should be taken from you, and sold ? "

" We can't reason from our feelings to those of this class of
persons," said the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her
lap.

" Indeed, ma'am, you can know nothing of them, if you say
so," answered the first lady, warmly. " I was born and brought
up among them. I know they do feel, just as keenly — even
more so, perhaps — as we do."

The lady said " Indeed ! " yawned, and looked out the cabin
window, and finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with
which she had begun, — "After all, I think they are better off
than they would be to be free."

" It 's undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the Af-
rican race should be servants, - - kept in a low condition," said
a grave-looking gentleman in black, a clergyman, seated by the
cabin door. " ' Cursed be Canaan ; a servant of servants shall
lie be,' the scripture says."

" I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means ? " said a tall
man, standing by.

" Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable
reason, to doom the race to bondage, ages ago ; and we must
not set up our opinion against that."

" Well, then, we '11 all go ahead and buy up niggers," said
the man, " if that 's the way of Providence, - - won't we,
Squire]" said he, turning to Haley, who had been standing,
with his hands in his pockets, by the stove, and intently listen-
ing to the conversation.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

147

" Yes," continued the tall man, " we must all be resigned to
the decrees of Providence. Niggers must be sold, and trucked
round, and kept under ; it 's what they 's made for. 'Pears
like this yer view 's quite refreshing, an't it, stranger 1 " said he
to Haley.

" I never thought on 't," said Haley. " I could n't have said
as much, myself; I han't no laming. I took up the trade just
to make a living ; if 't an't right, I calculated to 'pent on 't in
time, ye know."

"And now you '11 save yerself the trouble, won't ye1? " said
the tall man. " See what 't is, now, to know scripture. If
ye 'd only studied yer Bible, like this yer good man, ye might
have know'd it before, and saved ye a heap o' trouble. Ye
could jist have said, ' Cussed be •" -what 's his name? — and
't would all have come right." And the stranger, who was
no other than the honest drover Avhom we introduced to our
readers in the Kentucky tavern, sat down, and began smoking,
with a curious smile on his long, dry face.

148 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

A tall, slender young man, with a face expressive of great
feeling and intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the words,
" ' All things whatsoever ye would that men should do unto
you, do ye even so unto them.' I suppose," he added, "that
is scripture, as much as ' Cursed be Canaan.' "

" Wai, it seems quite a* plain a text, stranger," said John
the drover, " to poor fellows like us, now " ; and John smoked
on like a volcano.

The young man paused, looked as if he was going to say
more, when suddenly the boat stopped, and the company made
the usual steamboat rush, to see where they were landing.

" Both them ar chaps parsons 1 " said John to one of the men,
as they were going out.

The man nodded.

As the boat stopped, a black woman came running wildly
up the plank, darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slave
gang sat, and threw her arms round that unfortunate piece of
merchandise before enumerated, -- "John, aged thirty," and
with sobs and tears bemoaned him as her husband.

But what needs tell the story, told too oft, — every clay told,
• — of heart-strings rent and broken, — the weak broken and
torn 'for the profit and convenience of the strong! It needs
not to be told ; — every day is telling it, — telling it, too, in
the ear of One who is not deaf, though he be long silent.

The young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity
and God before, stood with folded arms, looking on this scene.
He turned, and Haley was standing at his side.

" My friend," he said, speaking with thick utterance, " how
can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this? Look at
those poor creatures ! Here I urn, rejoicing in my heart that
I am going home to my wife and child ; and the same bell
which is a signal to carry me onward towards them will part
this poor man and his wife forever. Depend upon it, God
will bring you into judgment for this."

The trader turned away in silence.

" I say, now," said the drover, touching his elbow, " there 's
differences in parsons, an't there 1 ' Cussed be Canaan ' don't
seem to go down with this 'un, does it ? "

Haley gave an uneasy growl.

" And that ar an't the worst on 't," said John ; " mabbe it
won't go down with the Lord, neither, when ye come to settle
with him, one o' these days, as all on us must, I reckon."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 149

Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat.

" If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs,"
he thought, " I reckon I '11 stop off this yer ; it 's really get-
ting dangerous." And he took out his pocket-book, and
began adding over his accounts, — a process which many gen-
tlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a specific for an uneasy
conscience.

The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went
on merrily, as before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and
smoked. Women sewed, and children played, and the boat
passed on her way.

One day, when she lay to for a while at a small town in
Kentucky, Haley went up into the place on a little matter of
business.

Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate
eircuit, had drawn near the side of the boat, and stood list-
lessly gazing over the railings. After a time, he saw the
trader returning, with an alert step, in company with a
colored woman, bearing in her arms a young child. She was
dressed quite respectably, and a colored man followed her,
bringing along a small trunk. The woman came cheerfully
onward, talking, as she came, with the man who bore hei
trunk, and so passed up the plank into the boat. The bell
rung, the steamer whizzed, the engine groaned and coughed,
and away swept the boat down the river.

The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of
the lower deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with chirrup-
ing to her baby.

Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming
up, seated himself near her, and began saying something to her
in an indifferent undertone.

Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman's
brow ; and that she answered rapidly, and with great vehe-
mence.

" I don't believe it, - - 1 won't believe it ! " he heard her say.
" You 're jist a foolin' with me."

" If you won't believe it, look here ! " said the man, drawing
out a paper ; " this yer 's the bill of sale, and there 's your
master's name to it ; and I paid down good solid cash for it,
too, I can tell you, — so, now ! "

" I don't believe Mas'r would cheat me so ; it can't be
true ! " said the woman, with increasing agitation.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" You can ask any of these men here, that can read writing.
Here ! " he said, to a man that was passing by, " jist read this
yer, won't you ! This yer gal won't believe me, when I tell
her what 't is."

" AVhy, it 's a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick," said
the man, " making over to you the girl Lucy and her child.
•It 's all straight enough, for aught I see."

The woman's passionate exclamations collected a crowd
around her, and the trader briefly explained to them the cause
of the agitation.

" He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire
out as cook to the same tavern where my husband works, -
that 's what Mas'r told me, his own self ; and I can't believe
!he 'd lie to me," said the woman.

" But he has sold you, my poor woman, there 's no doubt
about it," said a good-natured looking man, who had been ex-
amining the papers ; " he has done it, and no mistake."

" Then it 's no account talking," said the woman, suddenly
growing quite calm ; and, clasping her child tighter in her
arms, she sat down on her box, turned her back round, and
gazed listlessly into the river.

" Going to take it easy, after all ! " said the trader. " Gal 's
eot srrit. I see."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 151

The woman looked calm, as the boat went on ; and a beau-
tiful soft summer breeze passed like a compassionate spirit over
her head, — the gentle breeze, that never inquires whether the
brow is dusky or fair that it fans. And she saw sunshine
sparkling on the water, in golden ripples, and heard gay voices,
full of ease and pleasure, talking around her everywhere ; but
her heart lay as if a great stone had fallen on it. Her baby
raised himself up against her, and stroked her cheeks with his
little hands ; and, springing up and doAvn, crowing and chatting,
seemed determined to arouse her. She strained him suddenly
and tightly in her arms, and slowly one tear after another fell
on his wondering, unconscious face ; and gradually she seemed,
and little by little, to grow calmer, and busied herself with
tending and nursing him.

The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large and
strong of his age, and very vigorous in his limbs. Never, for
a moment, still, he kept his mother constantly busy in holding
him, and guarding his springing activity.

" That 's a fine chap ! " said a man, suddenly stopping op-
posite to him, with his hands in his pockets. " How old it)
he?"

" Ten months and a half," said tho mother.

The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stick
of candy, which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had it in
a baby's general depository, to wit, his mouth.

" Paim fellow ! " said the man. " Knows what 's what ! "
and he whistled, and walked on. When he had got to the other
side of the boat, he came across Haley, who was smoking on
top of a pile of boxes.

The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying,
as he did so, -

" Decentish kind o' wench you 've got round there, stranger."

" Why, I reckon she is tol'able fair," said Haley, blowing the
out of his mouth.

" Taking her down south 1 " said the man.

Haley nodded, and smoked on.

" Plantation hand 1 " said the man.

" Wai," said Haley, " I 'm fillin' out an order for a planta-
tion, and I think I shall put her in. They telled me she was
a good cook ; and they can use her for that, or set her at the
cotton-picking. She 's got the right fingers for that ; I looked
at 'em. Sell well, either way " ; and Haley resumed his cigar.

152 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" They won't want the young un on a plantation," said the
man.

" I shall sell him, first chance I find," said Haley, lighting
another cigar.

" S'pose you 'd be selling him tol'able cheap," said the
stranger, mounting the pile of boxes, and sitting down com-
fortably.

" Don't know "bout that," said Haley ; " he 's a pretty smart
young un, — straight, fat, strong ; flesh as hard as a brick ! "

" Very true, but then there 's all the bother and expense of

raisin'.'

" Nonsense ! " said Haley ; " they is raised as easy as any
kind of crittur there is going ; they an't a bit more trouble
than pups. This yer chap will be running all round, in a
month."

" I 've got a good place for raisin', and I thought of takin'
in a little more stock," said the man. " One cook lost a young
un last week, — got drownded in a washtub, while she was a
hangin' out clothes, — and I reckon it would be well enough
to set her to raisin' this yer."

Haley and the stranger smoked awhile in silence, neither
seeming willing to broach the test question of the interview.
At last the man resumed : —

" You would n't think of wantin' more than ten dollars for
that ar chap, seeing you must get him off yer hand, any how 1 "

Haley shook his head, and spit impressively.

" That won't do, no ways/' he said, and began his smoking

again.

" Well, stranger, what will you take 1 "

" Well, now," said Haloy, " I could raise that ar chap myself,

or get him raised ; he 's oncoinmon likely and healthy, and

he 'd fetch a hundred dollars, six months hence ; and, in a year

or two, he 'd bring two hundred, if I had him in the right spot ;

— so I shan't take a cent less nor fifty for him now."

" 0, stranger! that's rediculous, altogether," said the man.

" Fact ! " said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.

" I '11 give thirty for him," said the stranger, " but not a cent

more."

" Now, I '11 tell ye what I will do," said Haley, spitting
again, with renewed decision. " I '11 split the difference, and
say forty-five ; and that 's the most I will do."

•' Well, agreed ! " said the man, after an interval.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 153

" Done ! " said Haley. " Where do you land 1 "

" At Louisville." said the mau.

" Louisville," said Haley. " Very fair, we get there about
dusk. Chap will be asleep, — all fair, — get him off quietly,
and no screaming, — happens beautiful,--! like to do every-
thing quietly, -- 1 hates all kind of agitation and fluster." And
so, after a transfer of certain bills had passed from the man's
pocket-book to the trader's, he resumed his cigar.

It was a bright, tranquil evening when the boat stopped at
the wharf at Louisville. The woman had been sitting with her
baby in her arms, now wrapped in a heavy sleep. When she
heard the name of the place called out, she hastily laid the child
down in a little cradle formed by the hollow among the boxes,
first carefully spreading under it her cloak ; and then she sprung
to the side of the boat, in hopes that, among the various hotel-
waiters who thronged the wharf, she might see her husband.
In this hope, she pressed forward to the front rails, and, stretch-
ing far over them, strained her eyes intently on the moving heads
on the shore, and the crowd pressed in between her and the child.

" Now 's your time," said Haley, taking the sleeping child
up, and handing him to the stranger. " Don't wake him up,
and set him to crying, now ; it would make a devil of a fuss
with the gal." The man took the bundle carefully, and was
soon lost in the crowd that went up the wharf.

When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had
loosed from the wharf, and was beginning slowly to strain her-
sjelf along, the woman returned to her old seat. The trader was
sitting there, — the child was gone !

" Why, why, — where 1 " she began, in bewildered surprise.

" Lucy," said the trader, " your child 's gone ; you may as
•veil know it first as last. You see, I know'd you could n't
take him down south ; and I got a chance to sell him to a first-
rate family, that '11 raise him better than you can."

The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and politi-
cal perfection which has been recommended by some preachers
and politicians of the north, lately, in which he had completely
(ivercoiue every humane weakness and prejudice. His heart
was exactly where yours, sir, and mine could be brought, with
proper effort and cultivation. The wild look of anguish and
utter despair that the woman cast on him might have disturbed
one less practised ; but he was used to it. He had seen that
e&me look hundreds of times. You can get used to such things,

154 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

too, my friend ; and it is the great object of recent efforts to
make our whole northern community used to them, for the
glory of the Union. So the trader only regarded the mortal
anguish which he saw working in those dark features, those
clenched hands, and suffocating breathings, as necessary inci-
dents of the trade, and merely calculated whether she was going
to scream, and get up a commotion on the boat ; for, like other
supporters of our peculiar institution, he decidedly disliked
agitation.

But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too
straight and direct through the heart, for cry or tear.

Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her
side. Her eyes looked straight forward, but she saw nothing.
All the noise and hum of the boat, the groaning of the machinery,
mingled dreamily to her bewildered ear ; and the poor, dumb-
stricken heart had neither cry nor tear to show for its utter
misery. She was quite calm.

The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost as
humane as some of our politicians, seemed to feel called on to
administer such consolation as the case admitted of.

" I know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy," said
he ; " but such a smart, sensible gal as you are, won't give way
to it. You see it 's necessary, and can't be helped ! "

" 0, don't, Mas'r, don't ! " said the woman, with a voice
like one that is smothering.

" You 're a smart wench, Lucy," he persisted ; " I mean to
do well by ye, and get ye a nice place down river ; and you '11
soon get another husband, — such a likely gal as you -

" 0, Mas'r, if you only won't talk to me now," said the
woman, in a voice of such quick and living anguish that the
trader felt that there was something at present in the case be-
yond his style of operation. He got up, and the woman turned
away, and buried her head in her cloak.

The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionally
stopped and looked at her.

" Takes it hard, rather," he soliloquized, "but quiet, tho' —
let her sweat awhile ; she '11 come right, by and by ! "

Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last, and
had a perfect understanding of its results. To him, it looked
like something unutterably horrible and cruel, because, poor,
ignorant black soul ! he had not learned to generalize, and to
take enlarged views. If he had only been instructed by certain

LUCY

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 155

ministers of Christianity, he might have thought better of it,
and seen in it an every-day incident of a lawful trade ; a trade
which is the vital support of an institution which some Ameri-
can divines tell us has no evils but such as are inseparable from
any other relations in social and domestic life. But Tom, as
we see, being a poor, ignorant fellow, whose reading had been
confined entirely to the New Testament, could not comfort and
solace himself with views like these. His very soul bled within
lim for what seemed to him the wrongs of the poor suffering
,hing that lay like a crushed reed on the boxes ; the feeling,
living, bleeding, yet immortal thing, which American state law
coolly classes with the bundles, and bales, and boxes, among
tyhich she is lying.

Tom drew near, and tried to say something ; but she only

groaned. Honestly, and with tears running down his own

iheeks, he spoke of a heart of love in the skies, of a pitying

Jesus, and an eternal home ; but the ear was deaf with anguish,

and the palsied heart could not feel.

Night came on, — night calm, unmoved, and glorious, shin-
ing down with her innumerable and solemn angel eyes, twink-
ling, beautiful, but silent. There was no speech nor language,
no pitying voice nor helping hand, from that distant sky. One
after another, the voices of business or pleasure died away ; all
on the boat were sleeping, and the ripples at the prow were
plainly heard. Tom stretched himself out on a box, and there,
as he lay, he heard, ever and anon, a smothered sob or cry from
the prostrate creature, — " Oh ! what shall I do 1 0 Lord ! O
good Lord, do help me ! " and so, ever and anon, until the rnur'
mur died away in silence.

At midnight, Tom waked, with a sudden start. Something
black passed quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he
heard a splash in the water. No one else saw or heard any-
thing. He raised his head, — the woman's place was vacant !
He got up, and sought about him in vain. The poor bleeding
heart was still, at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just
as brightly as if it had not closed above it.

Patience ! patience ! ye whose hearts swell indignant at
wrongs like these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of
the oppressed, is forgotten by the Man of Sorrows, the Lord of
Glory. In his patient, generous bosom he bears the anguish
of a world. Bear thou, like him, in patience, and labor in
love ; for sure as he is God, " the year of his redeemed shall

come."

156 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see
to his live-stock. It was now his turn to look about in per-
plexity.

" Where alive is that gal ] " he said to Tom.

Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did
not i'eel called on to state his observations and suspicions, but
said he did not know.

" She surely could n't have got off in the night at any of the
landings, for I was awake, and on the lookout, whenever the
boat stopped. I never trust these yer things to other folks."

This speech was addressed to Tom quite confidentially, as if
it was something that would be specially interesting to him.
Tom made no answer.

The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes,
bales, and barrels, around the machinery, by the chimneys, in
vain.

" Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer," he said, when,
after a fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing.
" You know something about it, now. Don't tell me, — I
know you do. I saw the gal stretched out here about ten
o'clock, and ag'in at twelve, and ag'in between one and two ;
and then at four she was gone, and you was a sleeping right
there all the time. Now, you know something, — you can't
help it."

"Well, Mas'r," said Tom, "towards morning something
brushed by me, and I kinder half woke ; and then I hearn a
great splash, and then I clare woke up, and the gal was gone.
That 's all I know on V

The trader was not shocked nor amazed ; because, as we
said before, he was xised to a great many things that you are
not used to. Even the awful presence of Death struck no
solemn chill upon him. He had seen Death many times, —
met him in the way of trade, and got acquainted with him,
— and he only thought of him as a hard customer, that embar-
rassed his property operations very unfairly ; and so he only
swore that the gal was a baggage, and that he was devilish un-
lucky, and that, if things went on in this way, he should not
make a cent on the trip. In short, he seemed to consider him-
self an ill-used man, decidedly ; but there was no help for it,
as the woman had escaped into a state which never will give up
a fugitive, — not even at the demand of the whole glorious
TJnion. The trader, therefore, sat discontentedly down, with

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 157

his little account-book, and put down the missing body and
soul under the head of losses !

" He 's a shocking creature, is n't he, — this trader] so un-
feeling ! It 's dreadful, really ! "

" 0, but nobody thinks anything of these traders ! They
are universally despised, — never received into any decent
society."

But who, sir, makes the trader ? Who is most to blame ]
The enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the
system of which the trader is the inevitable result, or the poor
trader himself 1 You make the public sentiment that calls for
his trade, that debauches and depraves him, till he feels no
shame in it ; and in what are you better than he ?

Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, you
refined and he coarse, you talented and he simple 1

In the day of a future Judgment, these very considerations
may make it more tolerable for him than for you.

In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, we must
beg the world not to think that American legislators are en-
tirely destitute of humanity, as might, perhaps, be unfairly
inferred from the great efforts made in our national body to
protect and perpetuate this species of traffic.

Who does not know how our great men are outdoing them-
selves, in declaiming against the foreign slave-trade? There
are a perfect host of Clarksons and Wilberforces risen up among
us on that subject, most edifying to hear and behold. Trading
negroes from Africa, dear reader, is so horrid ! It is not to
be thought of ! But trading them from Kentucky, — that 'a
quite another thing !

158

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

CHAPTEK XIII.

THE QUAKER SETTLEMENT.

QUIET scene now rises before us. A large, roomy,
neatly painted kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and
smooth, and without a particle of dust ; a neat,
well-blacked cooking-stove ; rows of shining tin,
suggestive of unmentionable good things to the
appetite ; glossy green wood chairs, old and firm ; a small flag-
bottomed rocking-chair, with a patchwork cushion in it, neatly
contrived out of small pieces of different colored woollen goods,
and a larger sized one, motherly and old, whose wide arms
breathed hospitable invitation, seconded by the solicitation of
its feather ciishions, — a real comfortable, persuasive old chair,
and worth, in the way of honest, homely enjoyment, a dozen
of your plush or brochetelle drawing-room gentry ; and in the
chair, gently swaying back and forward, her eyes bent on
some fine sewing, sat our old friend Eliza. Yes, there she is,
paler and thinner than in her Kentucky home, with a world of
quiet sorrow lying under the shadow of her long eyelashes, and
marking the outline of her gentle mouth ! It was plain to see
how old and firm the girlish heart was grown under the disci-
pline of heavy sorrow ; and when, anon, her large dark eye
•vas raised to follow the gambols of her little Harry, who was
•sporting, like some tropical butterfly, hither and thither over
the floor, she showed a depth of firmness and steady resolve
that was never there in her earlier and happier days.

By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap, into
which she was carefully sorting some dried peaches. She
might be fifty-five or sixty ; but hers was one of those faces
that time seems to touch only to brighten and adorn. The
snowy lisse crape cap, made after the strait Quaker pattern, —
the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in placid folds
across her bosom, — the drab shawl and dress, — showed at
once the community to which she belonged. Her face was

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

159

round and rosy, with a healthful downy softness, suggestive of
a ripe peach. Her hair, partially silvered by age, was parted
smoothly back from a high placid forehead, on which time had
written no inscription, except peace on earth, good-will to men,
and beneath shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving brown
eyes ; you only needed to look straight into them, to feel that
you saw to the bottom of a heart as good and true as ever
throbbed in woman's bosom. So much has been said and sung
of beautiful young girls, why don't somebody wake up to the
beauty of old women 1 If any want to get up an inspiration
under this head, we refer them to our good friend Rachel Hal-
liday, just as she sits there in her little rocking-chair. It had

a turn for quacking and squeaking, -- that chair had, — either
from having taken cold in early life, or from some asthmatic affec-
tion, or perhaps from nervous derangement ; but, as she gently
swung backward and forward, the chair kept up a kind of sub-
dued " creechy crawchy," that would have been intolerable in

160 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

any other chair. But old Simeon Halliday often declared it
was as good as any music to him, and the children all avowed
that they would n't miss of hearing mother's chair for anything
in the world. For why ? for twenty years or more, nothing
but loving words, and gentle moralities, and motherly loving
kindness, had come from that chair ; — head-aches and heart-
aches innumerable had been cured there, — difficulties spiritual
and temporal solved there, - - all by one good, loving woman,
God bless her !

"And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza1?" she
said, as she was quietly looking over her peaches.

" Yes, ma'am," said Eliza, firmly. " I must go onward. I
dare not stop."

"And what '11 thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must
think about that, my daughter."

" My daughter " came naturally from the lips of Rachel
Halliday ; for hers was just the face and form that made
" mother" seem the most natural word in the world.

Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work ;
but she answered, firmly, -

" I shall do — anything I can find. I hope I can find some-
thing."

" Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,"
said Rachel.

" 0, thank you," said Eliza, " but " - she pointed to Harry —
" I can't sleep nights ; I can't rest. Last night I dreamed I
saw that man coming into the yard," she said, shuddering.

"Poor child!" said Rachel, wiping her eyes; "but thee
must n't feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath
a fugitive been stolen from our village. I trust thine will not
be the first."

The door here opened, and a little short, round, pincushiony
woman stood at the door, with a cherry, blooming face, like a
ripe apple. She was dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray, with
the muslin folded neatly across her round, plump little chest.

" Ruth Stedman," said Rachel, coming joyfully forward ;
" how is thee, Ruth 1 " she said, heartily taking both her hands.

" Nicely," said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and
dusting it with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a
round little head, on which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of
jaunty air, despite all the stroking and patting of the small fat
hands, which were busily applied to arranging it. Certain

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 161

stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had escaped here and
there, and had to he coaxed and cajoled into their place again ;
and then the new-comer, who might have been five-and-twenty,
turned from the small looking-glass, before which she had been
making these arrangements, and looked well pleased, — as most
people who looked at her might have been, — for she was de-
cidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping little woman,
as ever gladdened man's heart withal.

" Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris ; and this is the little boy
I told thee of."

" I am glad to see thee, Eliza, — very," said Ruth, shaking
hands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been ex-
pecting ; " and this is thy dear boy, - - 1 brought a cake for
him," she said, holding out a little heart to the boy, who came
up, gazing through his curls, and accepted it shyly.

" Where 's thy baby, Ruth ] " said Rachel.

" 0, he 's coming ; but thy Mary caught him as I came in,
and ran off with him to the barn, to show him to the chil-
dren."

At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-
looking girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother's, came in
with the baby.

" Ah ! ha ! " said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great,
white, fat fellow in her arms ; " how good he looks, and how he
does grow ! "

" To be sure, he does," said little bustling Ruth, as she took
the child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood, and va-
rious layers and wrappers of outer garments ; and having given
a twitch here, and a pull there, and variously adjusted and
arranged him, and kissed him heartily, she set him on the floor
Jo collect his thoughts. Baby seemed quite used to this mode
of proceeding, for he put his thumb in his mouth (as if it were
quite a thing of course), and seemed soon absorbed in his own
reflections, while the mother seated herself, and taking out a
long stocking of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit
with briskness.

" Mary, thee 'd better fill the kettle, had n't thee 1 " gently
suggested the mother.

Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing, placed
it over the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming, a
sort of censer of hospitality and good cheer. The peaches,
moreover, in obedience to a few gentle whispers from Rachel,

1G2 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

were soon deposited, by the same hand, in a stewpan over the
tire.

Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying
on an apron, proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits, first
saying to Mary, • " Mary, had n't thee better tell John to get
a chicken ready ? " and Mary disappeared accordingly.

"And how is Abigail Peters '? " said Rachel, as she went on
with her biscuits.

" 0, she 's better," said Ruth ; " I was in, this morning,
made the bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this
afternoon, and baked bread and pies enough to last some days ;
and I engaged to go back to get her up, this evening."

"I will go in to-morrow, and do any cleaning there may be,
and look over the mending," said Rachel.

"Ah! that is well," said Ruth. "I've heard," she added,
"that Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there last
night, — I must go there to-morrow."

"John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay
all day," suggested Rachel.

" Thank thee, Rachel ; will see, to-morrow ; but, here comes
Simeon."

Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat
and pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.

" How is thee, Ruth 1 " he said, warmly, as he spread his
broad open hand for her little fat palm ; "and how is John?"

" 0, John is well, and all the rest of our folks," said Ruth,
cheerily.

"Any news, father1?" said Rachel, as she was putting her
biscuits into the oven.

" Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along to-night,
with friends," said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing
bis hands at a neat sink, in a little back porch.

" Indeed ! " said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing
at Eliza.

"Did thee say thy name was Harris 1 " said Simeon to Eliza,
as he re-entered.

Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously
answered " Yes " ; her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that pos-
sibly there might be advertisements out for her.

" Mother ! " said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling
Rachel out.

" What does thee want, father1?" said Rachel, rubbing her
floury hands, as she went into the porch.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 163

" This child's husband is in the settlement, and will be here
to-night," said Simeon.

" Now, thee does n't say that, father1?" said Eachel, all her
face radiant with joy.

" It 's really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the
wagon, to the other stand, and there he found an old woman
and two men ; and one said his name was George Harris, and,
from what he told of his history, I am certain who he is. He'
is a bright, likely fellow, too."

" Shall we tell her now 1 " said Simeon.

" Let 's tell Euth," said Eachel. " Here, Euth,— come here."

Euth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back
porch in a moment.

"Euth, what does thee think?" said Eachel. "Father says
Eliza's husband is in the last company, and will be here to-
night."

A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the
speech. She gave such a bound from the floor, as she clapped
her little hands, that two stray curls fell from under her
Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her white neckerchief.

" Hush thee, dear ! " said Eachel, gently ; " hush, Euth !
Tell us, shall we tell her now 1 "

" Now ! to be sure, — this very minute. Why, now, sup-
pose 't was my John, how should I feel 1 Do tell her, right
off."

" Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor,
Euth," said Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Euth.

" To be sure. Is n't it what we are made for? If I did n't
love John and the baby, I should not know how to feel for
her. Come, now, do tell her, — do !" and she laid her hands
persuasively on Eachel's arm. "Take her into thy bedroom,
there, and let me fry the chicken while thee does it."

Eachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing,
and opening the door of a small bedroom, said, gently, " Come
in here with me, my daughter ; I have news to tell thee."

The blood flushed in Eliza's pale face ; she rose, trembling
with nervous anxiety, and looked towards her boy.

"No, no," said little Euth, darting up, and seizing her
hands. " Never thee fear ; it 's good news, Eliza, — go in, go
in ! " And she gently pushed her to the door, which closed
after her ; and then, turning round, she caught little Harry in
her arms, and began kissing him.

164 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Thee '11 see thy father, little one. Does thee know it 1
Thy father is coming," she said, over and over again, as the
boy looked wonderingly at her.

Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on.
Rachel Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, " The Lord
hath had mercy on thee, daughter ; thy husband hath escaped
from the house of bondage."

The blood flushed to Eliza's cheek in a sudden glow, and
went back to her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down,
pale and faint.

" Have courage, child," said Rachel, laying her hand on her
head. " He is among friends, who will bring him here to-
night."

" To-night ! " Eliza repeated, " to-night ! " The words lost
all meaning to her ; her head was dreamy and confused ; all
was mist for a moment.

When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on
the bed, with a blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her
hands with camphor. She opened her eyes in a state of dreamy,
delicious languor, such as one has who has long been bearing
a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would rest. The
tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moment since
the first hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange feel-
ing of security and rest came over her ; and, as she lay, with
her large, dark eyes open, she followed, as in a quiet dream,
the motions of those about her. She saw the door open into
the other room ; saw the supper-table, with its snowy cloth ;
heard the dreamy murmur of the singing teakettle ; saw Ruth
tripping backward and forward, with plates of cake and saucers
of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a cake into
Harry's hand, or pat his head, or twine his long curls round
her snowy fingers. She saw the ample, motherly form of
Rachel, as she ever and anon came to the bedside, and smoothed
and arranged something about the bedclothes, and gave a tuck
here and there, by way of expressing her good-will ; and was
conscious of a kind of sunshine beaming down upon her from
her large, clear, brown eyes. She saw Ruth's husband come
in, — saw her fly up to him, and commence whispering very
earnestly, ever and anon, with impressive gesture, pointing her
little linger toward the room. She saw her, with the baby in

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 165

her arras, sitting down to tea ; she saw them all at table, and
little Harry in a high-chair, under the shadow of KachePs
ample wing ; there were low murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling
of teaspoons, and musical clatter of cups and saucers, and all
mingled in a delightful dream of rest ; and Eliza slept, as she
had not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour when she
had taken her child and fled through the frosty starlight.

She dreamed of a beautiful country, — a land, it seemed to
her, of rest, — green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully
glittering water ; and there, in a house which kind voices told
her was a home, she saw her boy playing, a free and happy
child. She heard her husband's footsteps ; she felt him com-
ing nearer ; his arms were around her, his tears falling on her
face, and she awoke ! It was no dream. The daylight had
long faded ; her child lay calmly sleeping by her side ; a candle
was burning dimly on the stand, and her husband was sobbing
by her pillow.

The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house.
" Mother " was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and
boys, whom we had scarce time to introduce to our readers
yesterday, and who all moved obediently to Rachel's gentle
" Thee had better," or more gentle " Had n't thee better1? " in the
work of getting breakfast ; for a breakfast in the luxurious
valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and multiform, and,
like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in
Paradise, asking other hands than those of the original mother.
While, therefore, John ran to the spring for fresh water, and
Simeon the second sifted meal for corn-cakes, and Mary ground
coffee, Rachel moved gently and quietly about, making bis-
cuits, cutting up chicken, and diffusing a sort of sunny radi-
ance over the whole proceeding generally. If there was any
danger of friction or collision from the ill-regulated zeal of so
many young operators, her gentle " Come ! come ! " or " I
would n't, now," was quite sufficient to allay the difficulty.
Bards have written of the cestus of Venus, that turned the
heads of all the world in successive generations. We had
mther, for our part, have the cestus of Rachel Halliday, that
kept heads from being turned, and made everything go on
harmoniously. We think it is more suited to our modern
days, decidedly.

166 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the
elder stood in his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in
the corner, engaged in the anti-patriarchal operation of shav-
ing. Everything went on so sociably, so quietly, so harmoni-
ously, in the great kitchen, — - it seemed so pleasant to every
one to do just what they were doing, there was such an atmos-
phere of mutual coulideuce and good-fellowship everywhere, —
even the knives and forks had a social clatter as they went on
to the table ; and the chicken and haui had a cheerful and joy-
ous fizzle iu the pan, as if they rather enjoyed being cooked
than otherwise ; — and when George and Eliza and little Harry
came out, they met such a hearty, rejoicing welcome, no won-
der it seemed to them like a dream.

At last, they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary stood
at the stove, baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the
true exact golden-brown tint of perfection, were transferred
quite handily to the table.

Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the
head of her table. There was so much ruotherliness and tull-
heartedness even in the way she passed a plate of cakes or
poured a cup of coffee, that it seemed to put a spirit into the
food and drink she offered.

It was the first time that ever George had sat down on equal
terms at any white man's table ; and he sat down, at first,
with some constraint and awkwardness ; but they all exhaled
and went off like fog, in the genial morning rays of this sim-
ple, overflowing kindness.

This, indeed, was a home, — home, — a word that George
had never yet known a meaning for ; and a belief in God, and
trust in his providence, began to encircle his heart, as, with a
golden cloud of protection and confidence, dark, misanthropic,
pining, atheistic doubts, and fierce despair, melted away before
the light of a living Gospel, breathed in living faces, preached
by a thousand unconscious acts of love and good-will, which,
like the cup of cold water given in the name of a disciple, shall
never lose their reward.

" Father, what if thee should get found out again ? " said
Simeon second, as he buttered his cake.

" I should pay my fine," said Simeon, quietly.

" But what if they put thee in prison 1 "

" Could n't thee and mother manage the farm 1 " said Simeon,
smiling.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 167

" Mother can do almost everything," said the boy. " But is
n't it a shame to make such laws 1 "

"Thee mustn't speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon," said his
father, gravely. " The Lord only gives us our worldly goods
that we may do justice and mercy ; if our rulers require a price
of us for it, we must deliver it up."

" Well, I hate those old slaveholders ! " said the boy, who
felt as unchristian as became any modern reformer.

" I am surprised at thee, son," said Simeon ; " thy mother
never taught thee so. I would do even the same for the slave-
holder as for the slave, if the Lord brought him to my door in
affliction.''

Simeon second blushed scarlet ; but his mother only smiled,
and said, " Simeon is my good boy ; he will grow older, by
and by, and then he will be like his father."

" I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any diffi-
culty on our account," said George, anxiously.

" Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the
world. If we would not meet trouble for a good cause, we
were not worthy of our name."

" But, for me," said George, " I could not bear it."

" Fear not, then, friend George ; it is not for thee, but for
God and man, we do it," said Simeon. " And now thou must
lie by quietly this day, and to-night, at ten o'clock, Phineas
Fletcher will carry thee onward to the next stand, — thee and
the rest of thy company. The pursuers are hard after thee ;
we must not delay."

" If that is the case, why wait till evening?" said George.

" Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settle-
ment is a Friend, and all are watching. It has been found safei
to travel by night."

168

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTEE XIV.

EVANGELINE.

" A young star ! which shone
O'er life, — too sweet an image for such glass !
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded ;
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."

HE Mississippi ! How, as by an enchanted wand,
have its scenes been changed, snipe Chateaubri-
and wrote his prose-poetic description of it, as a
river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid
undreamed wonders of vegetable and animal
existence.

But, as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance
has emerged to a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid.
What other river of the world bears on its bosom to the ocean
the wealth and enterprise of such another country1? — a coun-
try whose products embrace all between the tropics and the
poles ! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing along,
an apt resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is
poured along its wave by a race more vehement and energetic
than any the old world ever saw. Ah ! would that they did
not also bear along a more fearful freight, — the tears of the
oppressed, the sighs of the helpless, the bitter prayers of poor,
ignorant hearts to an unknown God, — unknown, unseen, and
silent, but who will yet " come out of his place to save all the
poor of the eartli ! "

The slanting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-like
expanse of the river ; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark
cypress, hung with wreaths of dark, funereal moss, glow in
the golden ray, as the heavily laden steamboat marches on-
ward.

Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over
deck and sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massive
block of gray, she moves heavily onward to the nearing mart.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 169

We must look some time among its crowded decks before \ve
Bluill tind again our humble friend Tom. High on the upper
deck, in a little nook among the everywhere predominant cot-
ton-bales, at last we may find him.

Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby's representa-
tions, and partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet
character of the man, Tom had insensibly won his way far into
the confidence even of such a man as Haley.

At first he had watched him narrowly through the day,
and never allowed him to sleep at night unfettered ; but the
uncomplaining patience and apparent contentment of Tom's1
manner led him gradually to discontinue these restraints, and
for some time Tom had enjoyed a sort of parole of honor,
being permitted to come and go freely where he pleased on the
boat.

Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a
hand in every emergency which occurred among the workmen
below, he had won the good opinion of all the hands, and
spent many hours in helping them with as hearty a good-will
as ever he worked on a Kentucky farm.

When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would
climb to a nook among the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and
busy himself in studying over his Bible, — and it is there we
see him now.

For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river
is higher than the surrounding country, and rolls its tremen-
dous volume between massive levees twenty feet in height.
The traveller from the deck of the steamer, as from some
floating castle top, overlooks the whole country for miles and
miles around. Tom, therefore, had spread out full before him,
in plantation after plantation, a map of the life to which he
was approaching.

He saw the distant slaves at their toil ; he saw afar their
villages of huts gleaming out in long rows on many a planta-
tion, distant from the stately mansions and pleasure-grounds
of the master ; — and as the moving picture passed on, his
poor, foolish heart would be turning backward to the Ken-
tucky farm, with its old shadowy beeches, -- to the master's
house, with its wide, cool halls, and, near by, the little cabin,
overgrown with the multiflora and bignonia. There he seemed
to see familiar faces of comrades, who had grown up with him
from infancy ; he saw his busy wife, bustling in her prepara-

170 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

tions for his evening meals ; he heard the merry laugh of his
boys at their play, and the chirrup of the baby at his knee ;
and then, with a start, all faded, and he saw again the cane-
brakes and cypresses and gliding plantations, and heard again
the creaking and groaning of the machinery, all telling him
too plainly that all that phase of life had gone by forever.

In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messages
to your children ; but Tom could not write, — the mail for him
had no existence, and the gulf of separation was unbridged
by even a friendly word or signal.

Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of hia
Bible, as he lays it on the cotton-bale, and, with patient finger,
threading his slow way from word to word, traces out its prom
ises ] Having learned late in life, Tom was but a slow reader,
and passed on laboriously from verse to verse. Fortunate for
him was it that the book he was intent on was one which slow
reading cannot injure, — nay, one whose words, like ingots ot
gold, seem often to need to be weighed separately, that the
mind may take in their priceless value. Let us follow him a
moment, as, pointing to each word, and pronouncing each hah
aloud, he reads, —

« Let — not — your — heart — be — troubled. In — my —
Father's — house — are — many — mansions. I — go — to -
prepare — a — place — for — you."

Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had
a heart as full of honest grief as poor Tom's, - - perhaps no
fuller, for both were only men ; — but Cicero could pause over
no such sublime words of hope, and look to no such future
reunion ; and if he had seen them, ten to one he would not
have believed, --he must fill his head first with a thousand
questions of authenticity of manuscript, and correctness of trans-
lation. But, to poor Torn, there it lay, just what he needed,
so evidently true and divine that the possibility of a question
never entered his simple head. It must be true ; for, if not
true, how could he live1?

As for Tom's Bible, though it had no annotations and helpr
in margin from learned commentators, still it had been embel-
lished with certain way-marks and guide-boards of Tom's own
invention, and which helped him more than the most learned
expositions could have done. It had been his custom to get
the Bible read to him by his master's children, in particular
by young Master George ; and, as they read, he would desig-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 171

nate, by bold, strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the
passages which more particularly gratihed his ear or affected
his heart. His Bible was thus marked through, from one end
to the other, with a variety of styles and designations ; so he
could in a moment seize upon his favorite passages, without
the labor of spelling out what lay between them ; — and while
it lay there before him, every passage breathing of some old
home scene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible
seemed to him all of this life that remained, as well as the
promise of a future one.

Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman
of fortune and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore thft
name of St. Clare. He had with him a daughter between five
and six years of age, together with a lady who seemed to claim
relationship to both, and to have the little one especially undei
her charge.

Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl, — for she
was one of those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no mor*-
contained in one place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze, —
nor was she one that, once seen, could be easily forgotten.

Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its
usual chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about
it an undulating and aerial grace, such as one might dream ot
for some mythic and allegorical being. Her face was remark-
able, less for its perfect beauty of feature than for a singular
and dreamy earnestness of expression, which made the ideal
start when they looked at her, and by which the dullest and
most literal were impressed, without exactly knowing why.
The shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust were
peculiarly noble, and the long golden-brown hair that floated
like a cloud around it, the deep spiritual gravity of her violet
blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes of golden brown, — all
marked her out from other children, and made every one turn
and look after her, as she glided hither and thither on the boat.
Nevertheless, the little one was not what you would have
called either a grave child or a sad one. On the contrary, an
airy and innocent playfulness seemed to nicker like the shallow
of summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoy
ant figure. She was always in motion, always with a hall-
smile on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an
undulating and cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she
moved, as in a happy dream. Her father and female guardian

172 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

were incessantly busy in pursuit of her, — but, when caught,
she melted from them again like a summer cloud ; and as no
word of chiding or reproof ever fell on her ear for whatever
she chose to do, she pursued her own way all over the boat.
Always dressed in white, she seemed to move like a shadow
through all sorts of places, without contracting spot or stain ;
and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where
those fairy footsteps had not glided, and that visionary golden
head, with its deep blue eyes, rleeted along.

The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, some-
times found those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging
depths of the furnace, and fearfully and pityingly at him, as
if she thought him in some dreadful danger. Anon the steers-
man at the wheel paused and smiled, as the picture-like head
gleamed through the window of the round house, and in a
moment was gone again. A thousand times a day rough voices
blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softness stole over hard
faces, as she passed ; and when she tripped fearlessly over dan-
gerous places, rough, sooty hands were stretched involuntarily
out to save her, and smooth her path.

Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly
race, ever yearning toward the simple and childlike, watched
the little creature with daily increasing interest. To him she
seemed something almost divine ; and whenever her golden
head and deep blue eyes peered out upon him from behind
some dusky cotton-bale, or looked down upon him over some
ridge of packages, he half believed that he saw one of the
angels stepped out of his New Testament.

Often and often she walked mournfully round the place
Where Haley's gang of men and women sat in their chains.
She would glide in among them, and look at them with an air
of perplexed and sorrowful earnestness ; and sometimes she
would lift their chains with her slender hands, and then sigh
wofully, as she glided away. Several times she appeared sud-
denly 'among them, with her hands full of candy, nuts, and
oranges, which she would distribute joyfully to them, and then
be gone again.

Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ventured
on any overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abun-
dance of simple acts to propitiate and invite the approaches
of the little people, and he resolved to play his part right
skilfully. He could cut cunning little baskets out of cherry-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 173

stones, could make grotesque faces on hickory-nuts, or odd-
jumping figures out of elder- pith, and he was a very Pan in
the manufacture of whistles of all sizes and sorts. His pockets
were full of miscellaneous articles of attraction, which he had
hoarded in days of old for his master's children, and which he
now produced, with commendable prudence and economy, one
by one, as overtures fur acquaintance and friendship.

The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in every-
, thing going on, and it was not easy to tame her. For a while,
she would perch like a canary-bird on some box or package
near Torn, while busy in the little arts aforenamed, and take
from him, with a kind of grave bashfulness, the little articles
he offered. But at last they got on quite confidential terms.

" What 's little missy's name 1 " said Tom, at last, when ho
thought matters were ripe to push such an inquiry.

" Evangeline St. Clare," said the little one, " though papa
and everybody else call me Eva. Now, what 's your name 1 "

" My name 's Tom ; the little chil'en used to call me Uncle
Tom, way back thar in Kentuck."

" Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I
like you," said Eva. " So, Uncle Tom, where are you going 1 "

11 1 don't know, Miss Eva."

" Don't know 1 " said Eva.

" No. I am going to be sold to somebody. I don't know
who."

"My papa can buy you," said Eva, quickly; "and if he
buys you, you will have good times. I mean to ask him to,
this very day."

" Thank you, my little lady," said Tom.

The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood,
and Eva, hearing her father's voice, bounded nimbly away.
Tom rose up, and went forward to offer his service in wooding,
and soon was busy among the hands.

Eva and her father were standing together by the railings to
see the boat start from the landing-place, the wheel had made
two or three revolutions in the water, when, by some sudden
movement, the little one suddenly lost her balance, and fell
sheer over the side of the boat into the water. Her father,
scarce knowing what he did, was plunging in after her, but was
held back by some behind him, who saw that more efficient
aid had followed his child.

Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck, as she

174

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

fell. He saw her strike the water, and sink, and was after her
in a moment. A broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was
nothing for him to keep afloat in the water, till, in a moment

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 175

or two, the child rose to the surface, and he caught her in his
arms, and, swimming with her to the boat-side, handed her up,
all dripping, to the grasp of hundreds of hands, which, as if
they had all belonged to one man, were stretched eagerly out
to receive her. A few moments more, and her father bore her,
dripping and senseless, to the ladies' cabin, where, as is usual
in cases of the kind, there ensued a very well-meaning and
kind-hearted strife among the female occupants generally, as to
who should do the most things to make a disturbance, and to
hinder her recovery in every way possible.

It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer
drew near to New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation
and preparation was spread through the boat ; in the cabin,
one and another were gathering their things together, and
arranging them, preparatory to going ashore. The steward
and chambermaid, and all, were busily engaged in cleaning,
furbishing, and arranging the splendid boat, preparatory to a
grand entree.

On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded,
and anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a
group on the other side of the boat.

There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day
before, but otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident
which had befallen her. A graceful, elegantly formed young
man stood by her, carelessly leaning one elbow on a bale of
cotton, while a large pocket-book lay open before him. It
was quite, evident, at a glance, that the gentleman was Eva's
father. There was the same noble cast of head, the same
large blue eyes, the same golden-brown hair ; yet the expres-
sion was wholly different. In the large, clear blue eyes,
though in form and color exactly similar, there was wanting
that misty, dreamy depth of expression ; all was clear, bold,
and bright, but with a light wholly of this world : the beauti-
fully cut mouth had a proud and somewhat sarcastic expres-
sion, while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat not ungrace-
fully in every turn and movement of his fine form. He was
listening, with a good-humored, negligent air, half comic, halt
contemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on
the quality of the article for which they were bargaining.

"All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black mo-

176

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN,- OR,

rocco, complete ! " he said, when Haley had finished. " Well,
now, my good fellow, what 's the damage, as they say in Ken-
tucky ; in short, what 's to be paid out for this business ] How
much are you going to cheat me, now ? Out with it ! "

" Wai," said Haley, " if I should say thirteen hundred dol-
lars for that ar fellow, I should n't but just save myself; I
should n't, now, re'ly."

" Poor fellow ! " said the young man, fixing his keen, mock-
ing blue eye on him ; "but I suppose you 'd let me have him
for that, out of a particular regard for me."

"Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and
nat'lly enough."

" 0, certainly, there 's a call on your benevolence, my friend.
Now, as a matter of Christian charity, how cheap could you
afford to let him go, to oblige a young lady that 's particular
sot on him ] "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 177

"Wai, now, just think on't," said the trader ; "just look at
them limbs, --broad-chested, strong as ahorse. Look at his
head ; them high forrads allays shows calculatin' niggers, that '11
do any kind o' thing. 1 've marked that ar. Now, a nigger of
that ar heft and build is worth considerable, just, as you may
say, for his body, supposin" he 's stupid ; but come to put in
his calculatin' faculties, and them which I can show he has
oncommon, why, of course, it makes him come higher. Why,
that ar fellow managed his master's whole farm. He has a
strornary talent for business."

" Bad, bad, very bad ; knows altogether too much ! " said the
young man, with the same mocking smile playing about his
mouth. " Never will do, in the world. Your smart fellows
are always running off, stealing horses, and raising the devil
generally. I think you '11 have to take off a couple of hundred
for his smartness."

" Wai, there might be something in that ar, if it warn't for
his character ; but I can show recommends from his master and
others, to prove he is one of your real pious, — the most humble,
prayin', pious crittur ye ever did see. Why, he 's been called
a preacher in them parts he came from."

"And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly,"
added the young man, dryly. " That 's quite an idea. Relig-
ion is a remarkably scarce article at our house."

" You 're joking, now."

" How do you know I am 1 Did n't you just warrant him
for a preacher 1 Has he been examined by any synod or coun-
cil 1 Come, hand over your papers."

If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humored
twinkle in the large blue eye, that all this banter was sure, in
the long run, to turn out a cash concern, he might have been
somewhat out of patience ; as it was, he laid down a greasy
pocket-book on the cotton-bales, and began anxiously studying
over certain papers in it, the young man standing by, the while,
looking down on him with an air of careless, easy drollery.

" Papa, do buy him ! it 's no matter what you pay," whis-
pered Eva, softly, getting up on a package, and putting her
arm around her father's neck. " You have money enough, I
know. I want him."

" What for, pussy ? Are you going to use him for a rattle-
box, or a rocking-horse, or what 1 "

" I want to make him happy."

178 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

"An original reason, certainly."

Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby,
which the young man took with the tips of his long lingers,
and glanced over carelessly.

"A gentlemanly hand," he said, " and well spelt, too. Well,
now, but I 'm not sure, after all, about this religion," said he,
the old wicked expression returning to his eye ; " the country
is almost ruined with pious white people : such pious politicians
as we have just before elections, • — such pious goings on in all
departments of church and state, that a fellow does not know
who '11 cheat him next. I don't know, either, about religion's
being up in the market, just now. I have not looked in the
papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundred dollars,
now, do you put on for this religion 1 "

" You like to be a jokin', now," said the trader ; " but, then,
there 's sense under all that ar. I know there 's differences in
religion. Some kinds is mis'rablc : there 's your meetin' pious ;
there 's your singin', roarin' pious ; them ar an't no account, in
black or white ; — but these rayly is ; and I 've seen it in nig-
gers as often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy, honest
pious, that the hull world could n't tempt 'em to do nothing
that they thinks is wrong ; and ye see in this letter what Tom's
old master says about him."

" Now," said the young man, stooping gravely over his book
of bills, " if you can assure me that 1 :really can buy this kind
of pious, and that it will be set down to my account in the
book up above, as something belonging to me, I would n't care
if I did go a little extra for it. How d' ye say ] "

" Wai, raily, I can't do that,'' said the trader. " I 'm a
thinkin' that every man '11 have to hang on his own hook, in
them ar quarters."

" Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and
can't trade with it in the state where he wants it most, an't it,
now1?" said the young man, who had been making out a roll
of bills while he was speaking. " There, count your money,
old boy ! " he added, as he handed the roll to the trader.

" All right," said Haley, his face beaming with delight ; and
pulling out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale,
which, in a few moments, he handed to the young man.

" I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried," said
the latter, as he ran over the paper, " how much I might
bring. Say so much for the shape of my head, so much forn

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 179

high forehead, so much for arms, and hands, and legs, and then
so much for education, learning, talent, honesty, religion !
Bless me ! there would be small charge on that last, I 'm think-
ing. But come, Eva," he said ; and taking the hand of his
daughter, he stepped across the boat, and carelessly putting the
tip of his linger under Tom's chin, said, good-humoredly,
"Look up, Tom, and see how you like your new master."

Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay,1
young, handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure ; and Tom
felt the tears start in his eyes as he said, heartily, " God bless
you, Mas'r ! "

" Well, I hope he will. What 's your name1? Tom1? Quite
as likely to do it for your asking as mine, from all accounts.
Can you drive horses, Tom 1 "

"I've been allays used to horses," said Tom. "Mas'r
Shelby raised heaps on 'em."

"Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition
that you won't be drunk more than once a week, unless in
cases of emergency, Tom."

Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, " I never
drink, Mas'r."

" I 've heard that story before, Tom ; but then we '11 see.
It will be a special accommodation to all concerned, if you
don't. j>T3ver mind, my boy," he added, good-humoredly,
seeing Tom still looked grave ; " I don't doubt you mean to do
well."

" I sartin do, Mas'r," said Tom.

" And you shall have good times," said Eva. " Papa is very
good to everybody, only he always will laugh at them."

" Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation,"
said St. Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked
away.

130 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XV.

TOM'S NEW MASTER, AND VARIOUS OTHER MATTERS.

INGE the thread of our humble hero's life has now
become interwoven with that of higher ones, it is
necessary to give some brief introduction to them.

Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy
planter of Louisiana. The family had its origin in
Canada. Of two brothers, very similar in temperament and
characcer, one had settled on a flourishing farm in Vermont,
and the other became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The
mother of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose
family had emigrated to Louisiana during the days of its early
settlement. Augustine and another brother were the only
children of their parents. Having inherited from his mother
an exceeding delicacy of constitution, he was, at the instance
of physicians, during many years of his boyhood, sent to the
care of his uncle in Vermont, in order that his constitution
might be strengthened by the cold of a more bracing climate.

In childhood, he was remarkable for an extreme and marked
sensitiveness of character, more akin to the softness of woman
than the ordinary hardness of his own sex. Time, however,
overgrew this softness with the rough bark of manhood, and
but few knew how living and fresh it still lay at the core.
His talents were of the very first order, although his mind
showed a preference always for the ideal and the assthetic, and
there was about him that repugnance to the actual business of
life which is the common result of this balance of the faculties.
Soon after the completion of his college course, his whole nature
was kindled into one intense and passionate effervescence o/
romantic passion. His hour came, — the hour that comes onli
once ; his star rose in the horizon, — that star that rises s(
often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams ;
and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure, — he saw and
won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 181

the northern states, and they were affianced. He returned
south to make arrangements for their marriage, when, most
unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail, with a
short note from her guardian, stating to him that ere this
reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to
madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling
the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too
proud to supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at
once into a whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from
the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover of the reign-
ing belle of the season ; and as soon as arrangements could be
made, he became the husband of a tine figure, a pair of bright
dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and, of course,
everybody thought him a happy fellow.

The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and
entertaining a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa,
near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought
to him in that well-remembered writing. It was handed to him
while he was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in a
whole roomful of company. He turned deadly pale when he
saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, and finished
the playful warfare of badinage which he was at the moment
carrying on with a lady opposite ; and, a short time after, was
missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read
the letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was
from her, giving a long account of a persecution to which she
had been exposed by her guardian's family, to lead her to unite
herself with their son : and she related how, for a long time,
his letters had ceased to arrive ; how she had written time and
again, till she became weary and doubtful ; how her health had
failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had discovered
the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The
letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and
professions of undying affection, which were more bitter than
death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her imme-
diately : —

" I have received yours, — but too late. I believed all I
heard. I was desperate. / am married, and all is over. Only
forget, -- it is all that remains for either of us."

And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for
Augustine St. Clare. But the real remained, -- the real, like
the flat, bare, oozy tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave,

182 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

with all its company of gliding boats and white-winged ships,
its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone down, and there
it lies, flat, slimy, bare, — exceedingly real.

Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die,
and that is the end of it j and in a story this is very convenient.
But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright
dies to us. There is a most busy and important round of eating,
drinking, dressing, walking, visiting, buying, .selling, talking,
reading, and all that makes up what is commonly called living,
yet to be gone through'; and this yet remained to Augustine.
Had his wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done
something — • as woman can — to mend the broken threads of
life, and weave them again into a tissue of brightness. BUG
Marie St. Clare could not even see that they had been broken.
As before stated, she consisted of a fine figure, a pair of splen-
did eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars ; and none of these
items were precisely the ones to minister to a mind diseased.

When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa,
and pleaded sudden sick-headache as the cause of his distress,
she recommended to him to smell of hartshorn ; and when the
paleness and headache came on week after week, she only said
that she never thought Mr. St. Clare was sickly ; but it seems he
was very liable to sick-headaches, and that it was a very un-
fortunate thing for her, because he did n't enjoy going into
company with her, and it seemed odd to go so much alone,
when they were just married. Augustine was glad in his heart
that he had married so iindiscerning a woman ; but as the
glosses and civilities of the honeymoon wore away, he dis-
covered that a beautiful young woman, who has lived all her
life to be caressed and waited on, might prove quite a hard
mistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed much
capability of affection, or much sensibility, and the little that
she had, had been merged into a most intense and unconscious
selfishness ; a selfishness the more hopeless, from its quiet
obtuseness, its utter ignorance of any claims but her own.
From her infancy, she had been surrounded with servants, who
lived oidy to study her caprices ; the idea that they had either
feelings or rights had never dawned upon her, even in distant
perspective. Her father, whose only child she had been, had
never denied her anything that lay within the compass of
human possibility ; and when she entered life, beautiful, ac-
complished, and an heiress, she had, of course, all the eligibles

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 183

and non-eligibles of the other sex sighing at her feet, and she
had no doubt that Augustine was a most fortunate man in
having obtained her. It is a great mistake to suppose that a
woman with no heart will be an easy creditor in the exchange
of affection. There is not on earth a more merciless exactor of
love from others than a thoroughly selfish woman ; and the
more unlovely she grows, the more jealously and scrupulously
she exacts love, to the uttermost farthing. When, therefore,
St. Clare began to drop off those gallantries and small attentions
which flowed at first through the habitude of courtship, he
found his sultana no way ready to resign her slave ; there were
abundance of tears, poutings, and small tempests, there were
discontents, pinings, upbraidings. St. Clare was good-natured
and self-indulgent, and sought to buy off with presents and
flatteries ; and when Marie became mother to a beautiful
daughter, he really felt awakened, for a time, to something like
tenderness.

St. Clare's mother had been a woman of uncommon elevation
and purity of character, and he gave to this child his mother's
name, fondly fancying that she would prove a reproduction of
her image. The thing had been remarked with petulant jeal-
ousy by his wife, and she regarded her husband's absorbing
devotion to the child with suspicion and dislike ; all that was
given to her seemed so much taken from herself. From the
time of the birth of this child, her health gradually sunk. A
life of constant inaction, bodily and mental, — the friction of
ceaseless ennui and discontent, united to the ordinary weakness
which attended the period of maternity, --in course of a few
years changed the blooming young belle into a yellow, faded,
sickly woman, whose time was divided among a variety of
fanciful diseases, and who considered herself, in every sense,
the most ill-used and suffering person in existence.

There was no end of her various complaints ; but her prin-
cipal forte appeared to lie in sick-headache, which sometimes
would confine her to her room three days out of six. As, of
course, all family arrangements fell into the hands of servants,
St. Clare found his menage anything but comfortable. His
only daughter was exceedingly delicate, and he feared that, with
no one to look after her and attend to her, her health and life
might yet fall a sacrifice to her mother's inefficiency. He had
taken her with him on a tour to Vermont, and had persuaded
his cousin, Miss Ophelia St. Clare, to return with him to his

184

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

southern residence ; and they are now returning on this boat,
where we have introduced them to our readers.

And now, while the distant domes and spires of New Orleans
rise to our view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss
Ophelia.

Whoever has travelled in the New England States will re-
member, in some cool village, the large farm-house, with its
clean-swept grassy yard, shaded by the dense and massive
foliage of the sugar maple ; and remember the air of order and
stillness, of perpetuity and unchanging repose, that seemed to

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 185

breathe over the whole place. Nothing lost, or out of order ;
not a picket loose in the fence, not a particle of litter in the
turfy yard, with its clumps of lilac-bushes growing up under
the windows. Within, he will remember wide, cleau rooms,
where nothing ever seems to be doing or going to be done,
where everything is once and forever rigidly in place, and where
all household arrangements move with tha punctual exactness
of the old clock in the corner. In the family " keeping-room,"
las it is termed, he will remember the staid, respectable old book-
case, with its glass doors, where liollin's History, Milton's
Paradise Lost, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and Scott's Family
Bible stand side by side in decorous order, with multitudes of
other books, equally solemn and respectable. There are no ser-
vants in the house, but the lady in the snowy cap, with the
spectacles, who sits sewing every afternoon among her daugh-
ters, as if nothing ever had been done, or were to be done, -
she and her girls, in some long-forgotten fore part of the day,
" did up the work" and for the rest of the time, probably, at
all hours when you would see them, it is "'done up." The old
kitchen floor never seems stained or spotted ; the tables, the
chairs, and the various cooking utensils never seem deranged
or disordered ; though three and sometimes four meals a day
are got there, though the family washing and ironing is there
performed, and though pounds of butter and cheese are in some
silent and mysterious manner there brought into existence.

On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia
had spent a quiet existence of some forty-five years, when her
cousin invited her to visit his southern mansion. The eldest
of a large family, she was still considered by her father and
mother as one of " the children," and the proposal that she
should go to Orleans was a most momentous one to the family
circle. The old gray-headed father took down Morse's Atlas,
out of the bookcase, and looked out the exact latitude and
longitude ; and read Flint's Travels in the South and West, to
make up his own mind as to the nature of the country.

The good mother inquired, anxiously, " if Orleans was n't an
awful wicked place," saying, " that it seemed to her most equal
to going to the Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among the
heathen."

It was known at the minister's, and at the doctor's, and at
Miss Peabody's milliner shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was
" talking about" going away down to Orleans with her cousin;

186 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

and of course the whole village could do no less than help this
very important process of talking about the matter. The min-
ister, who inclined strongly to abolitionist views, was quite
doubtful whether such a step might not tend somewhat to en-
courage the southerners in holding on to their slaves ; while
the doctor, who was a stanch colonizationist, inclined to the
opinion that Miss Ophelia ought to go, to show the Orleans
people that we don't think hardly of them, after all. He was
of opinion, in fact, that southern people needed encouraging.
When, however, the fact that she had resolved to go was fully
before the public mind, she was solemnly invited out to tea by
all her friends and neighbors for the space of a fortnight, and
her prospects and plans duly canvassed and inquired into.
Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the dress-
making, acquired daily accessions of importance from the de-
velopments with regard to Miss Ophelia's wardrobe which she
had been enabled to make. It was credibly ascertained that
Squire Sinclare, as his name was commonly contracted in the
neighborhood, had counted out fifty dollars, and given them to
Miss Ophelia, and told her to buy any clothes she thought best ;
and that two new .silk dresses, and a bonnet, had been sent for
from Boston. As to the propriety of this extraordinary outlay,
the public mind was divided, — some affirming that it was well
enough, all things considered, for once in one's life, and others
stoutly affirming that the money had better have been sent to
the missionaries ; but all parties agreed that there had been no
such parasol seen in those parts as had been sent on from New
York, and that she had one silk dress that might fairly be
trusted to stand alone, whatever might be said of its mistress.
There were credible rumors, also, of a hemstitched pocket-hand-
kerchief; and report even went so far as to state that Miss
Ophelia had one pocket-handkerchief with lace all around it, —
it was even added that it was worked in the corners ; but this
latter point was never satisfactorily ascertained, and remains, in
fact, unsettled to this day.

Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you, in
a very shining brown linen travelling-dress, tall, square-formed,
and angular. Her face was thin, and rather sharp in its out-
lines ; the lips compressed, like those of a person who is in the
habit of making up her mind definitely on all subjects ; while
the keen, dark eyes had a peculiarly searching, advised move-
ment, and travelled over everything, as if they were looking for
something to take care of.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 187

All her movements were sharp, decided, and energetic ; and,
though she was never much of a talker, her words were re-
markably direct, and to the purpose, when she did speak.

In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order,
method, and exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevitable
as a clock, and as inexorable as a railroad engine ; and she held
in most decided contempt and abomination anything of a con-
trary character.

The great sin of sins, in her eyes, — the sum of all evils, —
was expressed by one very common and important word in her
vocabulary, --" shiftlessness." Her h'nale and ultimatum of
contempt consisted in a very emphatic pronunciation of the
word " shiftless " ; and by this she characterized all modes of
procedure which had not a direct and inevitable relation to
accomplishment of some purpose then definitely had in mind.
People who did nothing, or who did not know exactly what
they were going to do, or who did not take the most direct
way to accomplish what they set their hands to, were objects
of her entire contempt, — a contempt shown less frequently by
anything she said, than by a kind of stony grimness, as if she
scorned to say anything about the matter.

As to mental cultivation, — she had a clear, strong, active
mind, was well and thoroughly read in history and the older
English classics, and thought with great strength within cer-
tain narrow limits. Her theological tenets were all made up,
labelled in most positive and distinct forms, and put by, like
the bundles in her patch trunk ; there were just so many of
them, and there were never to be any more. So, also, were her
ideas with regard to most matters of practical life, — such as
housekeeping in all its branches, and the various political rela-
tions of her native village. And, underlying all, deeper than
anything else, higher and broader, lay the strongest principle
of her being, — conscientiousness. Nowhere is conscience so
dominant and all-absorbing as with New England women. It
is the granite formation, which lies deepest, and rises out, even
to the tops of the highest mountains.

Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the " ought."
Once make her certain that the " path of duty," as she com-
monly phrased it, lay in any given direction, and fire and water
could not keep her from it. She would walk straight down
into a well, or up to a loaded cannon's mouth, if she were only
i^uite sure that there the path lay. Her standard of right wad

188 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

so high, so all-embracing, so minute, and making so few con-
cessions to human frailty, that, though she strove with heroic
ardor to reach it, she never actually did so, and of course was
burdened with a constant and often harassing sense of defi-
ciency ; — this gave a severe and somewhat gloomy cast to her
religious character.

But, how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with
Augustine St. Clare, — gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, scep-
tical, — in short, walking with impudent and nonchalant free-
dom over every one of her most cherished habits and opinions'?

To tell the truth, then, Miss Ophelia loved him. When a
boy, it had been hers to teach him his catechism, mend his
clothes, comb his hair, and bring him up generally in the way
he should go ; and her heart having a warm side to it, Augus-
tine had, as he usually did with most people, monopolized a
large share of it for himself, and therefore it was that he suc-
ceeded very easily in persuading her that the " path of duty "
lay in the direction of New Orleans, and that she must go with
him to take care of Eva, and keep everything from going to
wreck and ruin during the frequent illnesses of his wife. The
idea of a house without anybody to take care of it went to her
heart ; then she loved the lovely little girl, as few could help
doing ; and though she regarded Augustine as very much of a
heathen, yet she loved him, laughed at his jokes, and forbore
with his failings, to an extent which those who knew him
thought perfectly incredible. But what more or other is to be
known of Miss Ophelia our reader must discover by a personal
acquaintance.

There she is, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded by a
mixed multitude of little and big carpet-bags, boxes, baskets,
each containing some separate responsibility which she is ty-
ing, binding up, packing, or fastening, with a face of great ear-
nestness.

" Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things] Of course
you have n't, — children never do : there 's the spotted carpet-
bag and the little blue bandbox with your best bonnet, —
that 's two ; then the India-rubber satchel is three ; and my
tape and needle box is four ; and my bandbox, five ; and my
collar-box, six ; and that little hair trunk, seven. What have
you done with your sunshade 1 Give it to me, and let me put
a paper round it, and tie it to my umbrella with my shade ; —
there, now."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 189

" Why, aunty, we are only going up home ; — what is the
use?"

" To keep it nice, child ; people must take care of their
things, if they ever mean to have anything ; and now, Eva, is
your thimble put up ? "

" Really, aunty, I don't know."

"Well, never mind; I '11 look your box over, -- thimble
wax, two spools, scissors, knife, tape-needle ; all right, — put it
in here. What did you ever do, child, when you were coming
on with only your papa 1 I should have thought you 'd a lost
everything you had."

" Well, aunty, I did lose a great many ; and then, when we
stopped anywhere, papa would buy some more of whatever it

was."

" Mercy on us, child, - — what a way ! "

" It was a very easy way, aunty," said Eva.

" It 's a dreadful shiftless one," said aunty.

" Why, aunty, what '11 you do now ? " said Eva ; " that
trunk is too full to be shut down."

" It muxt shut down," said aunty, with the air of a general,
as she squeezed the things in, and sprung upon the lid ; -
still a little gap remained about the mouth of the trunk.

" Get up here, Eva ! " said Miss Ophelia, courageously ;
" what has been done can be done again. This trunk has got
to be shut and locked, -- there are no two ways about it."

And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute state-
ment, gave iu. The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss
Ophelia turned the key, and pocketed it in triumph.

" Now we 're ready. Where 's your papa ] I think it time
this baggage was set out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you
see your papa."

" 0, yes, he 's down the other end of the gentlemen's cabin,
eating an orange."

" He can't know how near we are coming," said aunty ; " had
n't you better run and speak to him 1 "

" Papa never is in a hurry about anything," said Eva, " and
we have n't come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty
Look ! there 's our house, up that street ! "

The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tired
monster, to prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers
at the levee. Eva joyously pointed out the various spires,
domes, and waymarks, by which she recognized her native city.

190 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" Yes, yes, dear ; very fine," said Miss Ophelia, "But mercy
on us ! the boat has stopped ! where is your father 1 "

And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing, — waiters
running twenty ways at once, — men tugging trunks, carpet-
bags, boxes, — women anxiously calling to their children, and
everybody crowding in a dense mass to the plank towards the
landing.

Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately van-
quished trunk, and marshalling all her goods and chattels in
line military order, seemed resolved to defend them to the last.

" Shall I take your trunk, ma'am 1 " " Shall I take your
baggage 1 " " Let me 'tend to your baggage, Missis 1 '
"Shan't I carry out these yer, Missis V rained down upon
her unheeded. She sat with grim determination, upright
as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding on her bundle
of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a determination
that was enough to strike dismay even into a hackrnan, won-
dering to Eva, in each interval, " what upon earth her papa
could be thinking of; he couldn't have fallen over, now, -
but something must have happened " ; — and just as she had
begun to work herself into a real distress, he came up, with
his usually careless motion, and giving Eva a quarter of the
orange he was eating, said, -

"Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready."

" I 've been ready, waiting, nearly an hour," said Miss
Ophelia ; "I began to be really concerned about you."

" That 's a clever fellow, now," said he. " Well, the car-
riage is waiting, and the crowd are now off, so that one can
walk out in a decent and Christian manner, and not be pushed
and shoved. Here," he added to a driver who stood behind
him, " take these things."

" I '11 go and see to his putting them in," said Miss Ophelia.

" 0, pshaw, cousin, what 's the use ] " said St. Clare.

"Well, at any rate, I'll carry this, and this, and this,"
said Miss Ophelia, singling out three boxes and a small carpet-

bag.

" My dear Miss Vermont, positively, you must n't come
the Green Mountains over us that way. You must adopt at
least a piece of a southern principle, and not walk out under
all that load. They '11 take you for a waiting-maid ; give
them to this fellow ; he '11 put them down as if they were eggs,

now."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 191

Miss Ophelia looked despairingly, as her cousin took all her
treasures from her, and rejoiced to tind herself once moreiii the
carriage with them, in a state of preservation.

" Where 's Tom ? " said Eva.

" 0, he 's on the outside, Pussy. I 'm going to take Tom
up to mother for a peace-offering, to make up for that drunken
fellow that upset the carriage."

" 0, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know," said Eva °}
" he '11 never get drunk."

The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, built
in that odd mixture of Spanish and French style, of which
there are specimens in some parts of New Orleans. It was
built in the Moorish fashion, — a square building enclosing a
courtyard, into which the carriage drove through an arched
gateway. The court, in the inside, had evidently been ar-
ranged to gratify a picturesque and voluptuous ideality. Wide
galleries ran all around the four sides, whose Moorish arches,
slender pillars, and arabesque ornaments, carried the mind
back, as in a dream, to the reign of oriental romance in Spain.
In the middle of the court, a fountain threw high its silvery
water, falling in a never-ceasing spray into a marble basin,
fringed with a deep border of fragrant violets. The water in
the fountain, pellucid as crystal, was alive with myriads of
gold and silver fishes, twinkling and darting through it like so
many living jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved
with a mosaic of pebbles, laid in various fanciful patterns ;
and this, again, was surrounded by turf, smooth as green vel-
vet, while a carriage-drive enclosed the whole. Two large
orange-trees, now fragrant with blossoms, threw a delicious
shade ; and, ranged in a circle round upon the turf, were mar-
ble vases of arabesque sculpture, containing the choicest flow-
ering plants of the tropics. Huge pomegranate trees, with
their glossy leaves and flame-colored flowers, dark -leaved Ara-
bian jessamines, with their silvery stars, geraniums, luxuriant
roses bending beneath their heavy abundance of flowers, golden
jessamines, lemon-scented verbenas, all united their bloom
and fragrance, while here and there a mystic old aloe, with its
strange, massive leaves, sat looking like some hoary old en-
chanter, sitting in weird grandeur among the more perishable
bloom and fragrance around it.

The galleries that surrounded the court were festooned
with a curtain of some kind of Moorish stuff, and could be

192 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

drawn down at pleasure, to exclude the beams of the sun. OP
the whole, the appearance of the place was luxurious and ro-
mantic.

As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to
burst from a cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight.

" 0, is n't it beautiful, lovely ! my own dear, darling home !"
she said to Miss Ophelia. " Is n't it beautiful 1 "

" 'T is a pretty place," said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted ;
"though it looks rather old and heathenish to me."

Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an
air of calm, still enjoyment. The negro, it must be remem-
bered, is an exotic of the most gorgeous and superb countries
of the world, and he has, deep in his heart, a passion for all
that is splendid, rich, and fanciful ; a passion which, rudely in-
dulged by an untrained taste, draws on them the ridicule of the
colder and more correct white race.

St. Clare, who was in his heart a poetical voluptuary,
smiled as Miss Ophelia made her remark on his premises,
and, turning to Tom, who was standing looking round, hi?
beaming black face perfectly radiant with admiration, he said, —

" Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you."

" Yes, Mas'r, it looks about the right thing," said Tom.

All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being
hustled off, hackman paid, and while a crowd, of all ages and
sizes, — men, women, and children, — came running through
the galleries, both above and below, to see Mas'r come in.
Foremost among them was a highly dressed young mulatto
man, evidently a very distingue personage, attired in the ultra
extreme of the mode, and gracefully waving a scented cambric
hankerchief in his hand.

This personage had been exerting himself, with great alacrity,
in driving all the flock of domestics to the other end of the
veranda.

" Back ! all of you. I am ashamed of you," he said, in a
tone of authority. "Would you intrude on Master's domestic
relations, in the first hour of his return 1 "

All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with
quite an air, and stood huddled together at a respectful dis-
tance, except two stout porters, who came up and began con-
veying away the baggage.

Owing to Mr. Adolph's systematic arrangements, when St
Clare turned round from paying the hackman, there was no-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 193

body in view but Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous in satin
vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and bowing with inex-
pressible grace and suavity.

"Ah, Adolph, is it you]" said his master, offering his hand
to him; "how are you, boy]" while Adolph poured forth,
with great fluency, an extemporary speech, which he had been
preparing, with great care, for a fortnight before.

" Well, well," said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air
of negligent drollery, " that 's very well got up, Adolph. See
that the baggage is well bestowed. . I '11 come to the people in
a minute " ; and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to a large par-
lor that opened on the veranda.

While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird,
through the porch and parlor, to a little boudoir opening like-
wise on the veranda.

A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman half rose from a couch on
which she was reclining.

"Mamma ! " said Eva, in a sort of rapture, throwing herself
on her neck, and embracing her over and over again.

" That '11 do, — take care, child, — don't, you make my head
ache," said the mother, after she had languidly kissed her.

St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, hus-
bandly fashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie
lifted her large eyes on her cousin with an air of some curiosity,
and received her with languid politeness. A crowd of servants
now pressed to the entry door, and among them a middle-aged
mulatto woman, of very respectable appearance, stood foremost,
in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the door.

" 0, there 's Mammy ! " said Eva, as she flew across the
room ; and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her re-
peatedly.

This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache,
but, on the contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried,
till her sanity was a thing to be doubted of; and when re-
leased from her, Eva flew from one to another, shaking hands
and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia afterwards declared
fairly turned her stomach.

" Well !" said Miss Ophelia, "you southern children can dc
something that / could n't."

" What, now, pray ] " said St. Clare.

" Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I would n't
have anything hurt ; but as to kissing — "

194

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Niggers," said St. Clare, " that you 're not up to, — hey ? "

" Yes, that 's it. How can she 1 "

St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. " Halloa,
here, what's to pay out here? Here, you all, — Mammy,
Jimmy, Polly, Sukey, — glad to see Mas'r 1 " he said, as he
went shaking- hands from one to another. " Look out for the
babies ! " he added, as he stumbled over a sooty little urchin
who was crawling upon all fours. " If I step upon anybody,
let 'em mention it."

There was an abundance of laughing and blessing Mas'r, as
St. Clare distributed small pieces of change among them.

" Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls,"
he said ; and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 195

through a door into a large veranda, followed by Eva, who
carried a large satchel, which she had been tilling with apples,
nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and toys of every description, dur-
ing her whole homeward journey.

As St. Clare turned to go back, his eye fell upon Tom, who
was standing uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while
Adolph stood negligently leaning against the banisters, examin-
ing Tom through an opera-glass, with an air that would have
done credit to any dandy living.

" Puh ! you puppy," said his master, striking down the
opera-glass ; " is that the way you treat your company ] Seems
to me, Dolph," he added, laying his finger on the elegant
figured satin vest that Adolph was sporting, "seems to me
that 's my vest."

" 0, Master, this vest all stained with wine ; of course, a
gentleman in Master's standing never wears a vest like this.
I understood I was to take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow,
like me."

And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through
his scented hair, with a grace.

" So, that 's it, is it 1 " said St. Clare, carelessly. " Well,
here, I 'm going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then
you take him to the kitchen ; and mind you don't put on any
of your airs to him. He 's worth two such puppies as you."

" Master always will have his joke," said Adolph, laughing.
" I 'in delighted to see Master in such spirits."

" Here, Tom," said St. Clare, beckoning.

Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet
carpets, and the before unimagined splendors of mirrors, pic-
tures, statues, and curtains, and, like the Queen of Sheba be-
fore Solomon, there was no more spirit in him. He looked
afraid even to set his feet down.

" See here, Marie," said St. Clare to his wife, " I Ve
bought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he 's a
regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you
like a funeral, if you want. Open your eyes, now, and look
at him. Now, don't say I never think about you when I 'm
gone."

Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without
rising.

" I know he '11 get drunk," she said.

" No, he 's warranted a pious and sober article."

196 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

" Well, I hope he may turn out well," said the lady ; " it 's
more than I expect, though."

" Dolph," said St. Clare, " show Tom down stairs ; and,
mind yourself," he added ; " remember what I told you."

Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumber-
ing tread, went after.

" He 's a perfect behemoth ! " said Marie.

" Come, now, Marie," said St. Clare, seating himself on a
stool beside her sofa, " be gracious, and say something pretty
to a fellow."

" You 've been gone a fortnight beyond the time," said the
lady, pouting.

" Well, you know I wrote you the reason."

" Such a short, cold letter ! " said the lady.

" Dear me ! the mail was just going, and it had to be that
or nothing."

" That 's just the way, always," said the lady ; " always
something to make your journeys long, and letters short."

" See here, now," he added, drawing an elegant velvet case
out of his pocket, and opening it, " here 's a present I got for
you in New York."

It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, rep-
resenting Eva and her lather sitting hand in hand.

Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.

" What made you sit in such an awkward position ] '' she
said.

" Well, the position may be a matter of opinion ; but what
do you think of the likeness 1 "

" If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I
suppose you would n't in another," said the lady, shutting the
daguerreotype.

" Hang the woman ! " said St. Clare, mentally ; but aloud
he added, " Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the like-
ness ] Don't be nonsensical, now."

" It 's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare," said the lady,
" to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know
I 've been lying all day with the sick-headache ; and there 's
been such a tumult made ever since you came, 1 'm half dead."

" You 're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am ] " said Miss
Ophelia, suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-
chair, where she had sat quietly, taking an inventory of the
furniture, and calculating its expense.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 197

" Yes, I 'm a perfect martyr to it," said the lady.

" Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache," said Miss
Ophelia ; " at least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife
used to say so ; and she was a great nurse."

" I '11 have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our gar-
len by the lake brought in for that especial purpose," said
ot. Clare, gravely pulling the bell as he did so ; " meanwhile,
cousin, you must be wanting to retire to your apartment, and
refresh yourself a little, after your journey. Dolph," he added,
" tell Mammy to come here." The decent mulatto woman
whom Eva had caressed so rapturously soon entered ; she was
dressed neatly, with a high red and yellow turban on her head,
the recent gift of Eva, and which the child had been arranging
on her head. " Mammy," said St. Clare, " I put this lady un-
der your care ; she is tired, and wants rest ; take her to her
chamber, and be sure she is made comfortable " ; and Miss
Ophelia disappeared in the rear of Mammy.

198 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OB,

CHAPTER XVI.

TOM'S MISTRESS AND HER OPINIONS.

now, Marie," said St. Clare, " your golden days
are dawning. Here is our practical, business-like
New England cousin, who will take the whole
budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you
time to refresh yourself, and grow young and hand-
some. The ceremony of delivering the keys had better come
off forthwith."

This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few morn-
ings after Miss Ophelia had arrived.

" I 'm sure she 's welcome," said Marie, leaning her head
languidly on her hand. " I think she '11 find one thing, if she
does, and that is, that it 's we mistresses that are the slaves,
down here."

" 0, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of whole-
some truths besides, no doubt," said St. Clare.

" Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our con-
venience" said Marie. " I 'm sure, if we consulted that, we
might let them all go at once."

Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother's face,
with an earnest and perplexed expression, and said, simply,
" What do you keep them for, mamma1?"

" I don't know, I 'm sure, except for a plague ; they are the
plague of my life. I believe that more of my ill health is
caused by them than by any one thing ; and ours, I know, are
the very worst that ever anybody was plagued with."

" 0, come, Marie, you 've got the blues, this morning," said
St. Clair. " You know 't is n't so. There 's Mammy, the best
creature living, -- what could you do without her1?"

" Mammy is the best I ever knew," said Marie ; " and yet
Mammy, now, is selfish, — dreadfully selfish ; it 's the fault of
the whole race."

" Selfishness is a dreadful fault," said St. Clare, gravely.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 199

" Well, now, there 's Mammy," said Marie ; " I think it 's
selfish of her to sleep so sound nights ; she knows I need little
attentions almost every hour, when my worst turns are on, and
yet she 's so hard to wake. I absolutely am worse this very
morning, for the efforts I had to make to wake her last night."

" Has n't she sat up with you a good many nights, lately,
mamma 1 " said Eva.

" How should you know that 1 " said Marie, sharply ; " she 's
been complaining, I suppose."

" She did n't complain ; she only told me what bad nights
you 'd had, — so many in succession."

" Why don't you let Jane or Eosa take her place, a night or
two," said St. Clare, " and let her rest ] "

"How can you propose it? "said Marie. "St. Clare, you
really are inconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath
disturbs me ; and a strange hand about me would drive me
absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt the interest in me shb
ought to, she 'd wake easier, --of course, she would. I 'v&
heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never
was my luck " ; and Marie sighed.

Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an ai>
of shrewd, observant gravity ; and she still kept her lips tightly-
compressed, as if determined fully to ascertain her longitude
and position before she committed herself.

" Now Mammy has a sort of goodness," said Marie ; " she 's
smooth and respectful, but she 's selfish at heart. Now, she
never will be done fidgeting and worrying about that husband of
hers. You see, when I was married and came to live here,
of course, I had to bring her with me, and her husband my
father could n't spare. He was a blacksmith, and, of course,
very necessary ; and I thought and said, at the time, that
Mammy and he had better give each other up, as it was n't
likely to be convenient for them ever to live together again.
I wish, now, I 'd insisted on it, and married Mammy to some-
body else ; but I was foolish and indulgent, and did n't want
to insist. I told Mammy, at the time, that she must n't ever
expect to see him more than once or twice in her life again, for
the air of father's place does n't agree with my health, and I
can't go there ; and I advised her to take up with somebody
else; but no — she wouldn't. Mammy has a kind of obsti-
nacy about her, in spots, that everybody don't see as I do."

" Has she children 1 " said Miss Ophciia.

200 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" Yes ; she has two."

" I suppose she feels the separation from them 1"

"Well, of course, I could n't bring them. They were little
dirty things, — I could n't have them about ; and, besides,
they took up too much of her time ; but I believe that Mammy
has always kept up a sort of sulkiness about this. She won't
marry anybody else ; and I do believe, now, though she know?
how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my health is, she
would go back to her husband to-morrow, if she only could.
I do, indeed," said Marie; " they are just so seltish, now, the
best of them."

" It 's distressing to reflect upon," said St. Clare, dryly.

Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of
mortification and repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of
the lip, as he spoke.

" Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me," said Marie.
" I wish some of your northern servants could look at her
closets of dresses, — silks and muslins, and one real linen
cambric, she has hanging there. I 've worked sometimes
whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her ready to
go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She
never was whipped more than once or twice in her whole life.
She has her strong coffee or her tea every day, with white
sugar in it. It 's abominable, to be sure ; but St. Clare will
have high life below-stairs, and they every one of them live
just as they please. The fact is, our servants are over-indulged.
I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish, and act
like spoiled children ; but I 've talked to St. Clare till I am
tired."

"And I, too," said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper.

Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother,
with that expression of deep and mystic earnestness which was
peculiar to her. She walked softly round to her mother's chair,
and put her arms round her neck.

" Well, Eva, what now 1 " said Marie.

"Mamma, couldn't I take care of you one night, — just
one? I know I should n't make you nervous, and I should n't
sleep. I often lie awake nights, thinking -

"0, nonsense, child, — nonsense!" said Marie; "you are
such a strange child ! "

"But may I, mamma1? I think," she said, timidly, "that
Mammy is n't well. She told me her head ached all the time,
lately."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 201

" 0, that 's just one of Mammy's fidgets ! Mammy is just
like all the rest of them, — makes such a fuss about every little
headache or finger-ache ; it '11 never do to encourage it, —
never ! I 'm principled about this matter," said she, turning
to Miss Ophelia ; " you '11 find the necessity of it. If you
encourage servants in giving way to every little disagreeable
feeling, and complaining of every little ailment, you '11 have
your hands full. I never complain myself, — nobody knows
what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do."

Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised amaze-
ment at this peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely
ludicrous, that he burst into a loud laugh.

" St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to
my ill health," said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr.
" I only hope the day won't come when he '11 remember it ! "
and Marie put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally, St.
Clare got up, looked at his watch, and said he had an engage-
ment down street. Eva tripped away after him, arid Miss
Ophelia and Marie remained at the table alone.

" Now, that 's just like St. Clare ! " said the latter, with-
drawing her handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish,
when the criminal to be affected by it was no longer in sight.
" He never realizes, never can, never will, what I suffer, and
have, for years. If I was one of the complaining sort, or ever
made any fuss about my ailments, there would be some reasoo
for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining wife.
But I 've kept tilings to myself, and borne, and borne, till St.
Clare has got in the way of thinking I can bear anything."

Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected
to answer to this.

While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped
away her tears, and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of
way, as a dove might be supposed to make toilet after a shower,
and began a housewifely chat with Miss Ophelia, concerning
cupboards, closets, linen-presses, store-rooms, and other matters,
of which the latter was, by common understanding, to assume
the direction, — giving her so many cautious directions and
charges, that a head less systematic and business-like than Miss
Ophelia's would have been utterly dizzied and confounded.

" And now," said Marie, " I believe I 've told you every-
thing ; so that, when my next sick turn comes on, you '11 bo

202 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

able to go forward entirely, without consulting me ; — only
about Eva, — she requires watching."

" She seems to be a good child, very," said Miss Ophelia ;
" I never saw a better child."

" Eva 's peculiar," said her mother, " very. There are things
about her so singular ; she is n't like me, now, a particle " ;
and Marie sighed, as if this was a truly melancholy considera-
tion.

Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, " I hope she is n't," but
had prudence enough to keep it down.

" Eva always was disposed to be with servants ; and I think
that well enough with some children. Now, I always played
witli father's little negroes, --it never did me any harm. But
Eva somehow always seems to put herself on an equality with
every creature that comes near her. It 's a strange thing
about the child. I never have been able to break her of it.
St. Clare, I believe, encourages her in it. The fact is, St.
Clare indulges every creature under this roof but his own
wife."

Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.

" Now, there 's no way with servants," said Marie, " but to
put them down, and keep them down. It was always natural
to me, from a child. Eva is enough to spoil a whole house-
ful. What she will do Avhen she comes to keep house herself,
I 'm sure I don't know. I hold to being kind to servants, — I
always am ; but you must make 'em knoiv their place. Eva
never does ; there 's no getting into the child's head the first
beginning of an idea what a servant's place is ! You heard her
offering to take care of me nights, to let Mammy sleep ! That 's
just a specimen of the way the child would be doing all the
time, if she was left to herself,"

" Why," said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, " I suppose you think
your servants are human creatures, and ought to have some
rest when they are tired."

"Certainly, of course. I'm very particular in letting them
have everything that comes convenient, — anything that does n't
put one at all out of the way, you know. Mammy can make
up her sleep, some time or other; there's no difficulty about
that. She 's the sleepiest concern that ever I saw ; sewing,
standing, or sitting, that creature will go to sleep, and sleep any-
where and everywhere. No danger but Mammy gets sleep
enough. But this treating servants as if they were exotic flowers,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 203

or china vases, is really ridiculous," said Marie, as she plunged
languidly into the depths of a voluminous and pillowy lounge,
and drew towards her an elegant cut-glass vinaigrette.

" You see," she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice,
like the last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or some-
thing equally ethereal, " you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't often
speak of myself. It is n't my habit ; 't is n't agreeable to me.
In fact. I have n't strength to do it. But there are points
where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare never understood me,
never appreciated me. I think it lies at the root of all my ill
health. St. Clare means well, I am bound to believe ; but men
are constitutionally selfish and inconsiderate to woman. That,
at least, is my impression."

Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New
England caution, and a very particular horror of being drawn
into family difficulties, now began to foresee something of this
kind impending ; so, composing her face into a grim neutrality,
and drawing out of her pocket about a yard and a quarter of
stocking, which she kept as a specific against what Dr. Watts
asserts to be a personal \iabit of Satan when people have idle
hands, she proceeded to knit most energetically, shutting her lips
together in a way that said, as plain as words could, " You
need n't try to make me speak. I don't want anything to do
with your affairs," - in fact, she looked about as sympathizing
as a stone lion. But Marie didn't care for that. She had got
somebody to talk to, and she felt it her duty to talk, and that
was enough ; and, reinforcing herself by smelling again at her
vinaigrette, she went on.

" You see, I brought my own property and servants into the
connection, when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled
to manage them my own way. St. Clare had his fortune and
his servants, and I 'm well enough content he should manage
them his way ; but St. Clare will be interfering. He has
wild, extravagant notions about things, particularly about the
treatment of servants. He really does act as if he set his ser-
vants before me, and before himself, too ; for he lets them make
him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a finger. Now, about
some things, St.. Clare is really frightful, — he frightens me, —
good-natured as he looks, in general. Now, he has set down
his foot that, come what will, there shall not be a blow struck
in this house, except what he or I strike ; and he does it in a
way that I really dare not cross him. Well, you may see what

204 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

that leads to ; for St. Clare would n't raise his hand, if every
one of them walked over him, and I - - you see how cruel it
would be to require me to make the exertion. Now, you know
these servants are nothing but grown-up children."

" I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that
I don't ! " said Miss Ophelia, shortly.

" Well, but yoa will have to know something, and know it
to your cost, if you stay here. You don't know what a pro-
voking, stupid, careless, unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set
of wretches they are."

Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got
upon this topic ; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed
quite to forget her languor.

" You don't know, and you can't, the daily, hourly trials
that beset a housekeeper from them, everywhere and every
way. But it 's no use to complain to St. Clare. He talks the
strangest stuff. He says we have made them what they are,
and ought to bear with them. He says their faults are all
owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault and
punish it too. He says we should n't do any better, in their
place ; just as if one could reason from them to us, you know."

" Don't you believe that the Lord made them of one blood
with us 1 " said Miss Ophelia, shortly.

" No, indeed, not I ! A pretty story, truly ! They are a
degraded race."

"Don't you think they 've got immortal souls'?" said Miss
Ophelia, with increasing indignation.

"0, well," said Marie, yawning, "that, of course, — nobody
doubts that. But as to putting them on any sort of equality with
us, you know, as if we could be compared, why, it 's impos-
sible ! Now, St. Clare really has talked to me as if keeping
Mammy from her husband was like keeping me from mine.
There 's no comparing in this way. Mammy could n't have the
feelings that I should. It 's a different thing altogether, — of
course, it is, — and yet St. Clare pretends not to see it. And
just as if Mammy could love her little dirty babies as I love
Eva ! Yet St. Clare once really and soberly tried to persuade
me that it was my duty, with my weak health, and all I suffer,
to let Mammy go back, and take somebody else in her place.
That was a little too much even for me to bear. I don't often
show my feelings. I make it a principle to endure everything
in silence ; it 's a wife's hard lot, and I bear it. But I did

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 205

break out, that time ; so that he has never alluded to the sub-
ject since. But I know by his looks, and little things that he
says, that he thinks so as much as ever ; and it 's so trying, so
provoking ! "

Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she should
say something ; but she rattled away with her needles in a way
that had volumes of meaning in it, if Marie could only have
understood it.

" So, you just see," she continued, " what you 've got to
manage. A household without any rule ; where servants have
it all their own way, do what they please, and have what they
please, except so far as I, with my feeble health, have kept up
government. I keep my cowhide about, and sometimes I do
lay it on ; but the exertion is always too much for me. If St.
Clare would only have this thing done as others do —

" And how 's that 1 "

" Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other
places to be flogged. That 's the only way. If I was n't such
a poor, feeble piece, I believe I should manage with twice the
energy that St. Clare does."

" And how does St. Clare contrive to manage 1 " said Miss
Ophelia. " You say he never strikes a blow."

" Well, men have a more commanding way, you know ; it
is easier for them ; besides, if you ever looked full in his eye,
it 's peculiar, — that eye, — and if he speaks decidedly, there 's
a kind of flash. I 'm afraid of it, myself ; and the servants
know they must mind. I could n't do as much by a regular
storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of his eye, if
once he is in earnest. 0, there 's no trouble about St. Clare ;
that 's the reason he 's no more feeling for me. But you '11
find, when you come to manage, that there 's no getting along
without severity, — they are so bad, so deceitful, so lazy."

" The old tune," said St. Clare, sauntering in. " What an
awful account these wicked creatures will have to settle, at
last, especially for being lazy ! You see, cousin," said he, as he
stretched himself at full length on a lounge opposite to Marie
" it 's wholly inexcusable in them, in the light of the example
that Marie and I set them, — this laziness."

" Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad ! " said Marie.

"Am I, now] Why, I thought I was talking good, quite
remarkably for me. I try to enforce your remarks^ Marie,
always."

206 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare," said Marie.

"0, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my
dear, for setting me right."

" You do really try to be provoking," said Marie.

" 0, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have just
had a long quarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me exces-
sively ; so, pray be agreeable, now, and let a fellow repose in
the light of your smile."

" What 's the matter about Dolph 1 " said Marie. " That fel-
low's impudence has been growing to a point that is perfectly
intolerable to me. I only wish I had the undisputed manage-
ment of him awhile. I 'd bring him down ! "

" What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acute-
ness and good sense," said St. Clare. "As to Dolph, the case
is this : that he has so long been engaged in imitating my
graces and perfections, that he has, at last, really mistaken
himself for his master ; and I have been obliged to give him a
little insight into his mistake."

"How?" said Marie.

" Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that
I preferred to keep some of my clothes for my own personal
wearing ; also, I put his magnificence upon an allowance of
cologne- water, and actually was so cruel as to restrict him to
one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. Dolph was particu-
larly huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like a father, to
bring him round."

" 0, St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your ser-
vants 1 It 's abominable, the way you indulge them ! " said
Marie.

" Why, after all, what 's the harm of the poor dog's wanting
to be like his master ; and if I have n't brought him up any
better than to find his chief good in cologne and cambric
handkerchiefs, why should n't I give them to him 1 "

"And why haven't you brought him up better1?" said Miss
Ophelia, with blunt determination.

" Too much trouble, — laziness, cousin, laziness, — which
ruins more souls than you can shake a stick at. If it were n't
for laziness, I should have been a perfect angel, myself. I 'm
inclined to think that laziness is what your old Dr. Botherem,
up in Vermont, used to call the ' essence of moral evil.' It 'a
an awful consideration, certainly."

" I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility upon

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 207

you," said Miss Ophelia. " I would n't have it, for a thousand
worlds. You ought to educate your slaves, and treat them like
reasonable creatures, -- like immortal creatures, that you've
got to stand before the bar of God with. That's my mind,"
said the good lady, breaking suddenly out with a tide of zeal
that had been gaining strength in her mind all the morning.

" 0, come, come," said St. Clare, getting up quickly ; " whaf
lo you know about us 1 " And he sat down to the piano, and
"attled a lively piece of music. St. Clare had a decided genius
i'or music. His touch was brilliant and firm, and his lingers
flew over the keys with a rapid and birdlike motion, airy,
and yet decided. He played piece after piece, like a man who
is trying to play himself into a good humor. After pushing
the music aside, he rose up, and said, gayly, " Well, now,
cousin, you 've given us a good talk, and done your duty ; on
the whole, I think the better of you for it. I make no manner
of doubt that you threw a very diamond of truth at me, though
you see it hit me so directly in the face that it was n't exactly
appreciated, at first."

" For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk," said
Marie. " I 'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than
we do, I 'd like to know who ; and it don't do 'em a bit good,
— not a particle, --they get worse arid worse. As to talking
to them, or anything like that, I 'm sure I have talked till I
was tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, and all that ;
and I 'm sure they can go to church when they like, though
they don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so
many pigs, — so it is n't of any great use for them to go, as
J see ; but they do go, and so they have every chance ; but, as I
said before, they are a degraded race, and always will be, and
there is n't any help for them ; you can't make anything of
them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia, I 've tried, and you
have n't ; I was born and bred among them, and I know."

Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat
silent. St. Clare whistled a tune.

" St. Clare, I wish you would n't whistle," said Marie : " It
makes my head worse."

" I won't," said St. Clare. " Is there anything else you
would n't wish me to do 1 "

" I wish you would have some kind of sympathy for my
trials ; you never have any feeling for me."

" My dear accusing angel !'' said St. Clare.

208 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" It 's provoking to be talked to in that way."

" Then, how will you be talked to? I '11 talk to order, —
any way you '11 mention, -- only to give satisfaction."

A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains
of the veranda. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the cur-
tain, laughed too.

" What is it 1 " said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.

There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one
of his button-holes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva, gayly
laughing, was hanging a wreath of roses round his neck ; and
then she sat down on his knee, like a chip-sparrow, still laugh-

ing.

" 0, Tom, you look so funny ! "

Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet
way, to be enjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress.
He lifted his eyes, when he saw his master, with a half-.depre-
cating, apologetic air.

" How can you let her1?" said Miss Ophelia.

" Why not 1 " said St. Clare.

" Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful ! "

" You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large
dog, even if he was black ; but a creature that can think, and
reason, and feel, and is immortal, you shudder at ; confess it,
cousin. I know the feeling among some of you northerners
well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our not
having it ; but custom with us does what Christianity ought
to do, — obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I have
often noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger this was
with you than with us. You loathe them as you would a snake
or a toad, yet you are indignant at their wrongs. You would
not have them abused ; but you don't want to have anything
to do with them yourselves. You would send them to Africa,
out of your sight and smell, and then send a missionary or two
to do up all the self-denial of elevating them compendiously.
Is n't that it 1 "

" Well, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, " there
may be some truth in this."

" What would the poor and lowly do, without children 1 '
said St. Clare, leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as she
tripped off, leading Tom with her. " Your little child is your
only true democrat. Tom, now, is a hero to Eva ; his stories
are wonders in her eyes, his songs and Methodist hymns are

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 209

better than an opera, and the traps and little bits of trash in
his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful Tom
that evei- wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden,
that the Lord has dropped down expressly for the poor and
lowly, who get lew enough of any other kind."

" It 's strange, cousin/' said Miss Ophelia ; " one might a!
most think you were -A professor, to hear you talk."

" A professor 1 " said St. Clare.

" Yes ; a professor of religion.''

" Not at all ; not a professor, as your town-folks have it ;
and, what is worse, I 'm afraid, not a practiser, either."

" What makes you talk so, then '( "

" Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. " I believe
Shakespeare makes somebody say, ' I could sooner show twenty
•what were good to be done, than be one ot the twenty to
follow my own showing.' Nothing like division of labor. My
forte lies in talking, and yours, cousin, lies in doing."

In Tom's external situation, at this time, there was, as the
•world says, nothing to complain of. Little Eva's fancy for
him — the instinctive gratitude and loveliness of a noble
nature — had led her to petition her father that he might be
her especial attendant, whenever she needed the escort of a
servant, in her walks or rides ; and Tom had general orders
to let everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva wheneveb
she wanted him, — orders which our readers may fancy were
far from disagreeable to him. He was kept well dressed, fot
St. Clare was fastidiously particular on this point. His stable
services were merely a sinecure, and consisted simply in a daily
care and inspection, and directing an under-servant in his duties ;
for Marie St. Clare declared that she could not have any smell
of the horses about him when he came near her, and that he
must positively not be put to any service that would make him
unpleasant to her, as her nervous system was entirely inadequate,
to any trial of that nature ; one snuff of anything disagreeable
being, according to her account, quite sufficient to close the
scene, and put an end to all her earthly trials at once. Tom,
therefore, in his well-brushed broadcloth suit, smooth beaver,
glossy boots, faultless wristbands and collar, with his grave,
good-natured black face, looked respectable enough to be a
Bishop of Carthage, as men of his color were, in other ages.

210 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to
which his sensitive race are never indifferent • and he did enjoy
with a quiet joy the birds, the flowers, the fountains, the per-
fume, and light and beauty of the court, the silken hangings,
and pictures, and lustres, and statuettes, and gilding, that made
the parlors within a kind of Aladdin's palace to him.

If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race, —
and come it must, some time, her turn to figure in the great
drama of human improvement, — life will awake there with a
gorgeousness and splendor of which our cold western tribes
faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic land of gold,
and gems, and spices, and waving palms, and wondrous
flowers, and miraculous fertility, will awake new forms of art,
new styles of splendor ; and the negro race, no longer despised
and trodden down, will, perhaps, show forth some of the latest
and most magnificent revelations of human life. Certainly
they will, in their gentleness, their lowly docility of heart,
their aptitude to repose on a superior mind and rest on a higher
power, their childlike simplicity of affection, and facility of
forgiveness. In all these they will exhibit the highest form
of the peculiarly Christian life, and, perhaps, as God chasten-
eth whom he loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace
of affliction, to make her the highest and noblest in that king-
dom which he will set up, when every other kingdom has been
tried, and failed ; for the first shall be last, and the last first.

Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood,
gorgeously dressed, on the veranda, on Sunday morning, clasp-
ing a diamond bracelet on her slender wrist 1 Most likely it
was. Or, if it was n't that, it was something else ; for Marie
patronized good things, and she was going now, in full force, —
diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels, and all, — to a fashionable
church, to be very religious. Marie always made a point to be
very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant,
so airy and undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf en-
veloping her like a mist. She looked a graceful creature, and
she felt very good and very elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia
stood at her side, a perfect contrast. It was not that she had
not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and as fine a pocket-
handkerchief ; but stiffness, and squareness, and bolt-upright-
ness enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciable a presence
as did grace her elegant neighbor ; not the grace of God, how-
ever, — that is quite another thing !

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

211

" Where 's Eva 1 " said Marie.

" The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to
Mammy."

And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs ] Listen,
reader, and you will hear, though Marie does not.

"Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully."

" Lord bless you, Miss Eva ! my head allers aches lately.
You don't need to worry."

" Well, I 'mi glad you 're going out ; and here," - and the
little girl threw her arms around her, -- " Mammy, you shall
take my vinaigrette."

" What ! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them dia-
monds ! Lor, Miss, 't would n't be proper, no ways."

212 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Why not 1 You need it, and I don't. Mamma always
uses it for headache, and it '11 make you feel better. No, you
shall take it, to please me, now."

" Do hear the darling talk ! " said Mammy, as Eva thrust it
into her bosom, and, kissing her, ran down stairs to her mother.

" What were you stopping for? "

" I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take
to church with her."

" Eva ! " said Marie, stamping impatiently, — " your gold
vinaigrette to Mammy ! When will you learn what 's proper ?
Go right and take it back, this moment ! "

Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.

" I say, Marie, let the child alone ; she shall do as she
pleases," said St. Clare.

" St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world ? " said
Marie.

" The Lord knows," said St. Clare ; " but she '11 get along in
heaven better than you or I."

" O, papa, don't," said Eva, softly touching his elbow ; " it
troubles mother."

" Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting 1 " said Miss
Ophelia, turning square about on St. Clare.

" I 'in not going, thank you."

" I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church," said Marie ;
" but he has n't a particle of religion about him. It really
is n't respectable."

" I know it," said St. Clare. " You ladies go to church to
learn how to get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety
sheds respectability on us. If I did go at all, I would go where
Mammy goes ; there 's something to keep a fellow awake there,
at least."

" What ! those shouting Methodists 1 Horrible ! " said Marie.

" Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches.
Marie. Positively, it 's too much to ask of a man. Eva, do
you like to go ] Come, stay at home and play with me."

" Thank you, papa ; but I 'd rather go to church."

" Is n't it dreadful tiresome 1 " said St. Clare.

" I think it is tiresome, some," said Eva ; " and I am sleepy,
too, but I try to keep awake."

" What do you go for, then ? "

" Why, you know, papa," she said, in a whisper, " cousin
told me that God wants to have us ; and he gives us everything

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 213

you know ; and it is n't much to do it, if he wants us to. It
\s n't so very tiresome, after all."

" You sweet, little obliging soul ! " said St. Clare, kissing her ;
" go along, that 's a good girl, and pray for me."

" Certainly, I always do," said the child, as she sprang after
her mother into the carriage.

St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her, as
the carriage drove away ; large tears were in his eyes.

" 0, Evangeline ! rightly named," he said ; " hath not God
made thee an evangel to me 1 "

So he felt a moment ; and then he smoked a cigar, and read
the Picayune, and forgot his little gospel. Was he much un-
like other folks 1

" You see, Evangeline," said her mother, " it 's always right
and proper to be kind to servants, but it is n't proper to treat
them just as we would our relations, or people in our own class
of life. Now, if Mammy was sick, you would n't want to put
her in your own bed."

" I should feel just like it, mamma," said Eva, " because then
it would be handier to take care of her, and because, you know,
my bed is better than hers."

Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral per-
ception evinced in this reply.

" What can I do to make this child understand me 1 " she
said.

" Nothing," said Miss Ophelia, significantly.

Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment ; but chil-
dren, luckily, do not keep to one impression long, and in a few
moments she was merrily laughing at various things which she

«aw from the coach-windows, as it rattled along.

*****

" Well, ladies," said St. Clare, as they were comfortably
seated at the dinner- table, " and what was the bill of fare at
church to-day?"

" 0, Dr. G— - preached a splendid sermon," said Marie.
" It was just such a sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed
all my views exactly."

" It must have been very improving," said St. Clare. " The
subject must have been an extensive one."

" Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things,"
said Marie. " The text was, ' He hath made everything beau-
tiful in its season ' ; and he showed how all the orders and

214 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

distinctions in society came from God ; and that it was so appro-
priate, you know, and beautiful, that some should be high and
some low, and that some were born to rule and some to serve,
and all that, you know ; and he applied it so well to all this
ridiculous fuss that is made about slavery, and he proved dis-
tinctly that the Bible was on our side, and supported all our
institutions so convincingly. I only wish you 'd heard him."

" 0, I did n't need it," said St. Clare. " I can learn what
does me as much good as that from the Picayune, any time,
and smoke a cigar besides ; which 1 can't do, you know, in a
church."

" Why," said Miss Ophelia, " don't you believe in these
views ? "

" Who, — 1 1 You know I 'm such a graceless dog that these
religious aspects of such subjects don't edify me much. If I
was to say anything on this slavery matter, I would say out,
fair and square, ' We 're in for it ; we 've got 'em, and mean to
keep 'ein, — it 's for our convenience and our interest ' ; for
that 's the long and short of it, — that 's just the whole of what
all this sanctified stuff amounts to, after all ; and I think that
will be intelligible to everybody, everywhere."

" I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent ! " said Marie.
" I think it 's shocking to hear you talk."

" Shocking ! it 's the truth. This religious talk on such
matters, - - why don't they carry it a little further, and show
the- beauty, in its season, of a fellow's taking a glass too much,
and sitting a little too late over his cards, and various provi-
dential arrangements of that sort, which are pretty frequent
among us young men ; — we 'd like to hear that those are right
and godly, too."

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, " do you think slavery right or
wrong 1 "

" I 'ni not going to have any of your horrid New England
directness, cousin," said St. Clare, gayly. " If I answer that
question, I know you '11 be at me with half a dozen others, each
one harder than the last ; and I 'm not a going to define my
position. 1 am one of the sort that lives by throwing stones
at other people's glass houses, but I never mean to put up one
for them to stone."

" That 's just the way he 's always talking," said Marie ; " you
can't get any satisfaction out of him. I believe it 's just because
he don't like religion, that he 's always running out in this way
he 's been doing."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 215

" Religion ! " said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies
look at him. " Religion ! Is what you hear at church religion ]
Is that which can bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to
fit every crooked phase of selfish, worldly society, religion 1 Is
that religion which is less scrupulous, less generous, less just,
less considerate for man, than even my own ungodly, worldly,
blinded nature ? No ! When I look for a religion, I must look
for something above me, and not something beneath."

" Then you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery,"
said Miss Ophelia.

" The Bible was my mother s book," said St. Clare. " By it
she lived and died, and I would be very sorry to think it did.
I 'd as soon desire to have it proved that my mother could drink
brandy, chew tobacco, and swear, by way of satisfying me that
I did right in doing the same. It would n't make me at all
more satisfied with these things in myself, and it would take
from me the comfort of respecting her ; and it really is a com-
fort, in this world, to have anything one can respect. In short,
you see," said he, suddenly resuming his gay tone, " all I want
is that different things be kept in different boxes. The whole
framework of society, both in Europe and America, is made up
of various things which will not stand the scrutiny of any very
ideal standard of morality. It 's pretty generally understood
that men don't aspire after the absolute right, but only to dc
about as well as the rest of the world. Now, when any one
speaks up, like a man, and says slavery is necessary to us, we
can't get along without it, we should be beggared if we give it
up, and, of course, we mean to hold on to it, — this is strong,
clear, well-defined language ; it has the respectability of truth
to it ; and if we may judge by their practice, the majority of
the world will bear us out in it. But when he begins to put
on a long face, and snuffle, and quote Scripture, I incline to
think he is n't much better than he should be."

" You are very uncharitable," said Marie.

" Well," said St. Clare, " suppose that something should bring
down the price of cotton once and forever, and make the whole
slave property a drug in the market, don't you think we should
soon have another version of the Scripture doctrine ] What a
flood of light would pour into the church, all at once, and how
immediately it would be discovered that everything in the Bible
and reason went the other way ! "

" Well, at any rate," said Marie, as she reclined herself on a

216

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

lounge, " I 'm thankful I 'm born where slavery exists ; and I
believe it 's right, — indeed, I feel it must be ; and, at any rate,
I 'ni sure I could n't get along without it."

" I say, what do you think, Pussy 1 " said her father to Eva,
who came in at this moment, with a flower in her hand.

" What about, papa ? "

" Why, which do you like the best, — to live as they do at
your uncle's, up in Vermont, or to have a houseful of servants,
as we do? "

" 0. of course, our way is the pleasantest," said Eva.

" Why so?" said St. Clare, stroking her head.

" Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you know,"
said Eva, looking up earnestly.

"Now, that's just like Eva," said Marie; "just one of her
odd speeches."

" Is it an odd speech, papa1?" said Eva, whisperingly, as she
got upon his knee.

" Rather, as this world goes, Pussy," said St. Clare. " But
where has my little Eva been, all dinner-time ? "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 217

" 0, I 've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and
A.unt Dinah gave me my dinner."

" Hearing Tom sing, hey 1 "

" 0, yes ! he sings such beautiful things about the New
Jerusalem, and bright angels, and the land of Canaan."

" I dare say ; it 's better than the opera, is n't it ] "

" Yes, and he 's going to teach them to me."

" Singing lessons, hey 1 — you are coming on."

" Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible ; and
he explains what it means, you know."

" On my word," said Marie, laughing, " that is the latest joke
of the season."

" Tom is n't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I '11
dare swear," said St. Clare. " Tom has a natural genius for
religion. I wanted the horses out early, this morning, and I
stole up to Tom's cubiculum there, over the stables, and there
I heard him holding a meeting by himself; and, in fact, I
have n't heard anything quite so savory as Tom's prayer, this
some time. He put in for me, with a zeal that was quite apos-
tolic."

" Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I 've heard of that
trick before."

" If he did, he was n't very politic ; for he gave the Lord his
opinion of me, pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there was
decidedly room for improvement in me, and seemed very earnest
that I should be converted."

" I hope you '11 lay it to heart," said Miss Ophelia.

" I suppose you are much of the same opinion," said St. Clare.
"Well, we shall see, — shan't we, Eva?"

218 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE FREEMAN'S DEFENCE.

§HERE was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as
g^j; the afternoon drew to a close. Rachel Halliday
moved quietly to and fro, collecting from her house-
hold stores such needments as could be arranged
in the smallest compass, for the wanderers who
were to go forth that night. The afternoon shadows stretched
eastward, and the round red sun stood thoughtfully on the
horizon, and his beams shone yellow and calm into the little
bedroom where George and his wife were sitting. He was
sitting with his child on his knee, and his wife's hand in his.
Both looked thoughtful and serious, and traces of tears were on
their cheeks.

" Yes, Eliza," said George, " I know all you say is true.
You are a good child, — a great deal better than I am ; and I
will try to do as you say. I '11 try to act worthy of a free man.
I '11 try to feel like a Christian. God Almighty knows that
I 've meant to do well, — tried hard to do well, -- when every-
thing has been against me ; and now I '11 forget all the past,
and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and read my Bible,
and learn to be a good man."

" And when we get to Canada," said Eliza, " I can help you.
I can do dress-making very well ; and I understand fine wash-
ing and ironing ; and between us we can find something to
live on."

" Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy.
0, Eliza, if these people only knew what a blessing it is for a
man to feel that his wife and child belong to him ! I 've often
wondered to see men that could call their wives and children
their own fretting and worrying about anything else. Why,
I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but our bare
hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for any more.
Yes, though I 've worked hard every day, till I am twenty-five

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

219

years old, and have not a cent of money, nor a roof to cover
me, nor a spot of land to call niy own, yet, if they will only
let nie alone now, I will be satisfied, — thankful ; I will work,
and send back the money for you and my boy. As to my old
master, he has been paid five times over for all he ever spent
for me. I don't owe him anything."

"But yet Ave are not quite out of danger," said Eliza; "we
are not yet in Canada."

" True," said George, " but it seems as if I smelt the free
air, and it makes me strong."

At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment,
in earnest conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the
door. Eliza started and opened it.

Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother,
whom he introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall
and lathy, red-haired, with an expression of great acuteness
and shrewdness in his face. He had not the placid, quiet,
unworldly air of Simeon Halliday ; on the contrary, a particu-
larly wide-awake and au fait appearance, like a man who

220 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK.

rather prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keep
ing a bright lookout ahead ; peculiarities which sorted rather
oddly with his broad brim and formal phraseology.

"- Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of impor-
tance to the interests of thee and thy party, George," said Sim-
eon ; " it were well for thee to hear it."

" That I have," said Phineas, " and it shows the use of a
man's always sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as
I 've always said. Last night I stopped at a little lone tavern,
back on the road. Thee remembers the place, Simeon, where
we sold some apples, last year, to that fat woman, Avith the
great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving ; and,
after my supper, I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in
the corner, and pulled a buffalo over me, to wait till my bed
was ready ; and what does I do, but get fast asleep."

" With one ear open, Phineas ? " said Simeon, quietly.

" No ; I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was
pretty well tired ; but when I came to myself a little, I found
that there were some men in the room, sitting round a table,
drinking and talking ; and I thought, before I made much
muster, I 'd just see what they were up to, especially as I heard
them say something about the Quakers. ' So,' says one, ' they
are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt,' says he. Then I
listened with both ears, and I found that they Avere talking
about this very party. So I lay and heard them lay off all
their plans. This young man, they said, was to be sent back
to Kentucky, to his master, who was going to make an example
of him, to keep all niggers from running away ; and his wife
two of them were going to run down to New Orleans to sell,
on their own account, and they calculated to get sixteen or
eighteen hundred dollars for her ; and the child, they said, was
going to a trader, who had bought him ; and then there was
the boy, Jim, and his mother, they were to go back to their
masters in Kentucky. They said that there were two consta-
bles, in a town a little piece ahead, who would go in with 'en
to get 'em taken up, and the young woman was to be taken
before a judge ; and one of the fellows, who is small and
smooth-spoken, was to swear to her for his property, and get
her delivered over to him to take south. They 've got a right
notion of the track we are going to-night ; and they '11 be down
after us, six or eight strong. So, now, what 's to be done 1 "

The group that stood in various attitudes, after this commu-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 221

nication, v/ere worthy of a painter. Ilachel HalliJay, who had
taken her hands out of a batch of biscuit, to hear the news,
stood with them upraised and floury, and with a face of the
deepest concern. Simeon looked profoundly thoughtful ; Eliza
had thrown her arms around her husband, and was looking up to
him. George stood with clenched hands and glowing eyes, and
looking as any other man might look, whose wife was to be
sold at auction, and sou sent to a trader, all under the shelter
of a Christian nation's laws.

" What shall we do, George1?" said Eliza, faintly.

" I know what / shall do," said George, as he stepped into
the little room, and began examining his pistols.

" Ay, ay," said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon ; " thou
seest, Simeon, how it will work."

" I see," said Simeon, sighing ; " I pray it come not to
that."

" I don't want to involve any one with or for me," said
George. " If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I
will drive alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in strength,
and brave as death and despair, and so am I."

"Ah, well, friend," said Phineas, " but thee'll need a driver,
for all that. Thee 's quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee
knows ; but I know a thing or two about the road, that thee
does n't."

" But I don't want to involve you," said George.

" Involve," said Phineas, with a curious and keen expres-
sion of face. " When thee does involve me, please to let me
know."

" Phineas is a wise and skilful man," said Simeon. " Thee
does well, George, to abide by his judgment ; and," he added,
laying his hand kindly on George's shoulder, and pointing to
the pistols, "be not over hasty with these, --young blood is
hot."

" I will attack no man," said George. " All I ask of this
country is to be let alone, and I will go out peaceably ; but,'f
— he paused, and his brow darkened and his face worked, -
" I 've had a sister sold in that New Orleans market. I know
what they are sold for ; and am I going to stand by and see
them take my wife and sell her, when God has given me a
pair of strong arms to defend her] No; God help me! I'll
fight to the last breath, before they shall take my wife and son.
Can you blame me ] "

222 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; Oil,

" Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood
could not do otherwise," said Simeon. " Woe unto the world
because of offences, but woe unto them through whom the
offence cometh."

"Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?"

" I pray that I be not tried," said Simeon ; " the flesh is
•weak."

" I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in such
a case," said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the
sails of a windmill. " I an't sure, friend George, that I
should n't hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any accounts to
settle with him."

" If man should ever resist evil," said Simeon, " then George
should feel free to do it now : but the leaders of our people
taught a more excellent way ; for the wrath of man worketh
not the righteousness of God ; but it goes sorely against the
corrupt will of man, and none can receive it save they to whom
it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not tempted."

" And so / do," said Phineas ; " but if we are tempted too
much, -- why, let them look out, that 's all."

" It 's quite plain thee was n't born a Friend," said Simeon,
smiling. " The old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong
as yet."

To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted
backwoodsman, a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck ;
but, having wooed a pretty Quakeress, had been moved by the
power of her charms to join the society in his neighborhood,
and though he was an honest, sober, and efficient member, and
nothing particular could be alleged against him, yet the more
spiritual among them could not but discern an exceeding lack
of savor in his developments.

" Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own," said
Eachel Halliday, smiling ; " but we all think that his heart is
in the right place, after all."

" Well," said George, " is n't it best that we hasten our
flight?"

" I got up at four o'clock, and came on with all speed, full
two or three hours ahead of them, if they start at the time
they planned. It is n't Safe to start till dark, at any rate ; for
there are some evil persons in the villages ahead, that might
be disposed to meddle with us. if they saw our wagon, and
that would delay us more than the waiting ; but in two houra

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 223

I think we may venture. I will go over to Michael Cross, and
engage him to come behind on his swift nag, and keep a bright
lookout on the road, and warn us if any company of men
come on. Michael keeps a horse that can soon get ahead of
most other horses ; and he could shoot ahead and let us know,
if there were any danger. I am going out now to warn Jim
and the old woman to be in readiness, and to see about the
horse. We have a pretty fair start, and stand a good chance
to get to the stand before they can come up with us. So,
have good courage, friend George ; this is n't the first ugly
scrape that I 've been in with thy people," said Phineas, as he
closed the door.

" Phineas is pretty shrewd," said Simeon. " He will do the
best that can be done for thee, George."

" All I am sorry for," said George, " is the risk to you."
" Thee '11 much oblige us, friend George, to say no more
about that. What we do we are conscience bound to do ; we
can do no other way. And now, mother," said he, turning to
Rachel, " hurry thy preparations for these friends, for we must
not send them away fasting."

And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-
cake, and cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the et
ceteras of the evening meal, George and his wife sat in their
little room, with their arms folded about each other, in such
talk as husband and wife have when they know that a few
hours may part them forever.

" Eliza," said George, " people that have friends, and houses,
and lands, and money, and all those things, can't love as we
do, who have nothing but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza,
no creature ever had loved me, but my poor, heart-broken
mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that morning the trader
carried her off. She came to the corner where I was lying
asleep, and said, ' Poor George, your last friend is going. What
will become »f you, poor boy 1 ' And I got up and threw my
arms round her, and cried and sobbed, and she cried too ; and
those were the last kind words I got for ten long years ; and
my heart all withered up, and felt as dry as ashes, till I met
you. And your loving me, - - why, it was almost like raising
one from the dead ! I 've been a new man ever since ! And
now, Eliza, I '11 give my last drop of blood, but they shall wf
take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my
dead body."

224 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" O Lord, have mercy ! " said Eliza, sobbing. " It' he will
only let us get out of this country together, that is all we ask."

" Is God on their side 1 " said George, speaking less to his
wife than pouring out his own bitter thoughts. " Does he see
all they do 1 Why does he let such things happen ? And
they tell us that the Bible is on their side ; certainly all the
power is. They are rich, and healthy, and happy ; they are
members of churches, expecting to go to heaven ; and they get
along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way ;
and poor, honest, faithful Christians — Christians as good or
better than they — are lying in the very dust under their
feet. They buy 'em and sell 'em, and make trade of their
heart's blood, and groans and. tears, — and God lets them."

" Friend George," said Simeon, from the kitchen, " listen to
this Psalm ; it may do thee good."

George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her
tears, came forward also to listen, while Simeon read as fol-
lows : —

" ' But as for me, my feet were almost gone ; my steps had
wellnigh slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I
saw the prosperity of the wicked. They are not in trouble
like other men, neither are they plagued like other men.
Therefore, pride compasseth them as a chain ; violence cover-
eth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness ;
they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt,
and speak wickedly concerning oppression ; they speak loftily.
Therefore his people return, and the waters of a full cup are
wrung out to them, and they say, How doth God know ] and
is there knowledge in the Most High ? ' Is not that the way
thee feels, George ] "

" It is so, indeed," said George, — "as well as I could have
written it myself."

" Then, hear," said Simeon : " ' When I thought to know this,
it was too painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of
God. Then understood I their end. Surely thou didst sefi
them in slippery places, thou castedst them down to destruc-
tion. As a dream when one awaketh, so, 0 Lord, when thou
awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless, I am
continually with thee ; thou hast holden me by my right hand.
Thou shalt guide me by thy counsel, and afterwards receive me
to glory. It is good for me to draw near unto God. I have
put my trust in the Lord God.' "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 225

The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man,
Btole like sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of
George ; and after he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued
expression on his fine features.

" If this world were all, George," said Simeon, " thee might,
indeed, ask, Where is the Lord 1 But it is often those wlu
have least of all in this life whom he chooseth for the king-
dom. Put thy trust in him, and, no matter what befalls thee
here, he will make all right hereafter."

If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent
exhorter, from whose mouth they might have come merely as
pious and rhetorical flourish, proper to be used to people in
distress, perhaps they might not have had much effect ; but
coming from one who daily and calmly risked fine and impris-
onment for the cause of God and man, they had a weight that
could not but be felt, and both the poor, desolate fugitives
found calmness and strength breathing into them from it.

And now Rachel took Eliza's hand kindly, and led the way
to the supper-table. As they were sitting down, a light tap
sounded at the door, and Ruth entered.

" I just ran in," she said, " with these little stockings for the
"boy, — three pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so cold,
thee knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good courage,
Eliza 1 " she added, tripping round to Eliza's side of the table,
and shaking her warmly by the hand, and slipping a seed-cake
into Harry's hand. " I brought a little parcel of these for him,"
she said, tugging at her pocket to get out the package. " Chil-
dren, thee knows, will always be eating."

" 0, thank you ; you are too kind," said Eliza.

" Come, Ruth, sit down to supper," said Rachel.

" I could n't, any way. I left John with the baby, and
some biscuits in the oven ; and I can't stay a moment, else John
will burn up all the biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar in
the bowl. That 's the way he does," said the little Quakeress,
laughing. " So, good by, Eliza ; good by, George ; the Lord
grant thee a safe journey"; and, with a few tripping steps
Ruth was out of the apartment.

A little while after supper, a large covered wagon drew up
before the door ; the night was clear starlight ; and Phineas
jumped briskly down from his seat to arrange his passengers.
George walked out. of the door, with his child on one arm and
his wife on the other. His step was firm, his face settled and
resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them.

226 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" You get out, a moment," said Phineas to those inside,
" and let me fix the back of the wagon, there, for the women-
folks and the boy."

" Here are the two buffaloes." said Eachel. " Make the seats
as comfortable as may be ; it 's hard riding all night."

Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother,
who clung to his arm, and looked anxiously about, as if she
expected the pursuer every moment.

"Jim, are your pistols all in order 1 " said George, in a low,
firm voice.

"Yes, indeed," said Jim.

" Ami you 've no doubt what you shall do, if they come 1 "

" I rather think I have n't," said Jim, throwing open his
broad chest, and taking a deep breath. " Do you think I '11
let them get mother again 1 "

During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leave
of her kind friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by
Simeon, and, creeping into the back part witli her boy, sat
down among the buffalo-skins. The old woman was next handed
in and seated, and George and Jim placed on a rough board
seat front of them, and Phineas mounted in front.

" Farewell, my friends," said Simeon, from without.

" God bless you ! " answered all from within.

And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen
•road.

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the
roughness of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle,
therefore, rumbled on, through long, dark stretches of wood-
land, — over wide, dreary plains, — up hills, and down valleys,
— and on, on, on they jogged, hour after hour. The child
soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother's lap. The poor,
frightened old woman at last forgot her fears ; and even Eliza,
as the night waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep
her eyes from closing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the
briskest of the company, and beguiled his long drive with
whistling certain very unquaker-like songs, as he went on.

But about three o'clock George's ear caught the hasty and
decided click of a horse's hoof coming behind them at some
distance, and jogged Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up
his horses, and listened.

" That must be Michael," he said ; " I think I know the
sound of his gallop " ; and lie rose up and stretched his head
anxiously back over the road.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 227

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the
top of a distant hill.

" There he is, I do believe ! " said Phineas. George and Jim
both sprang out of the wagon, before they knew what they
were doing. All stood intensely silent, with their faces turned
towards the expected messenger. On he came. Now he went
down into a valley, where they could not see him ; but theyj
heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and nearer ; at last,1
they saw him emerge on the top of an eminence, within hail.

" Yes, that 's Michael ! " said Phineas ; and, raising his voice,
" Halloa, there, Michael ! "

"Phineas ! is that thee 1 "

" Yes ; what news — they coming ? "

" Eight on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy,
swearing and foaming like so many wolves."

And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of
galloping horsemen towards them.

" In with you, — quick, boys, in ! " said Phineas. " If you
must tight, wait till I get you a piece ahead." And, with the
word, both jumped in, and Phineas lashed the horses to a run,
the horseman keeping close beside them. The wagon rattled,
jumped, almost flew, over the frozen ground ; but plainer, and
still plainer, came the noise of pursuing horsemen behind.
The women heard it, and, looking anxiously out, saw, far in
the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party of men looming
up against the red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill,
and their pursuers had evidently caught sight of their wagon,
whose white cloth-covered top made it conspicuous at some
distance, and a loud yell of brutal triumph came forward on the
wind. Eliza sickened, and strained her child closer to her
bosom ; the old woman prayed and groaned, and George and
Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of despair. The pur-
suers gained on them fast ; the carriage made a sudden turn,
and brought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that
rose in an isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all
around it, quite clear and smooth. This isolated pile, 01 range
of rocks, rose up black and heavy against the brightening sky,
and seemed to promise shelter and concealment. It was a place
well known to Phineas, who had been familiar with the spot in
his hunting days ; and it was to gain this point he had been
racing his horses.

" Now for it ! " said he, suddenly checking his horses, and

228 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

•

springing from his seat to the ground. " Out with you, in a
twinkling, every one, and up into these rocks with me. Michael,
thee tie thy horse to the wagon, and drive ahead to Amariah's,
and get him and his boys to come back and talk to thest
fellows."

In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.

" There," said Phineas, catching up Harry, " you, each of you,
see to the women ; and run, now, if you ever did run ! "

There needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it,
the whole party were over the fence, making with all speed
for the rocks, while Michael, throwing himself from his horse,
and fastening the bridle to the wagon, began driving it rapidly

away.

" Come ahead," said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, and
saw, in the mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but
plainly marked fuotpath leading up among them ; " this is one
of our old hunting-dens. Come up ! "

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat,
with the boy in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his
trembling old mother over his shoulder, and George and Eliza
brought up the rear. The party of horsemen came up to
the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were dismount-
ing, to prepare to follow them. A few moments' scrambling
brought them to the top of the ledge ; the path then passed
between a narrow defile, where only one could walk at a time,
till suddenly they came to a rift or chasm more than a yard
in breadth, and beyond which lay a pile of rocks, separate
from the rest of the ledge, standing full thirty feet high, with
its sides steep and perpendicular as those of a castle. Phineas
easily leaped the chasm, and set down the boy on a smooth,
flat platform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the
rock.

" Over with you ! " he called ; " spring, now, once, for
your lives ! " said he, as one after another sprang across.
Several fragments of loose stone formed a kind of breastwork,
which sheltered their position from the observation of thos
below.

"Well, here we all are," said Phineas, peeping over the
stone breastwork to watch the assailants, who were coming
tumultuously up under the rocks. " Let 'em get us, if they
t-an. Whoever comes here has to walk single file between
those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys, d' ye see 1 r

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 229

" I do see," said George ; " and now, as this matter is ours,
let us take all the risk, and do all the lighting."

" Thee 's quite welcome to do the tight-ing, George," said
Phineas, chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke ; " but
I may have the fun of looking on, I suppose. But see, these
fellows are kinder debating down there, and looking up, like
hens when they are going to fly up on to the roost. Hadn't
thee better give 'em a word of advice, before they come up,
just to tell 'em handsomely they '11 be shot if they do 1 "

The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the
dawn, consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and
Marks, with two constables, and a posse consisting of such
rowdies at the last tavern as could be engaged by a little
brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of niggers.

" Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed," said one.

" Yes, I see 'em go up right here," said Tom ; " and here 's.
a path. I 'm for going right up. They can't jump down in a
hurry, and it won't take long to ferret 'em out."

" But, Tom, they might lire at us from behind the rocks,"
said Marks. "That would be ugly, you know."

" Ugh ! " said Tom, with a sneer. " Always for saving
your skin, Marks ! iS'o danger ! niggers are too plaguy
scared ! "

"I don't know why I shouldn't save my skin," said Marks.
" It 's the best I 've got ; and niggers do tight like the devil,
sometimes."

At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock above
them, and, speaking in a calm, clear voice, said, -

" Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you
want 1 "

" We want a party of runaway niggers," said Tom Loker.
u One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim
Selden, and an old woman. We 've got the officers, here, and
a warrant to take 'em ; and we 're going to have 'em, too.
D' ye hear 1 An't you George Harris, that belongs to Mr
Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky 1 "

" I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, die
call me his property. But now I 'm a free man, standing on
God's free soil ; and my wife and my child I claim as mine.
Jim and his mother are here. We have arms to defend our-
selves, and we mean to do it. You can come up, if you like ;
but the first one of you that comes within the range of our

230 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next ; and so on
till the last."

" O, come ! come ! " said a short, puffy man, stepping for-
ward, and blowing his nose as he did so. " Young man, this
nn't no kind of talk at all for you. You see, we 're officers of
justice. We 've got the law on our side, and the power, and so
forth ; so you 'd better give up peaceably, you see ; for you '11
certainly have to give, up, at last."

" I know very well that you 've got the law on your side,
and the power," said George, bitterly. " You mean to take
my wife to sell in New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf
in a trader's pen, and send Jim's old mother to the brute that
whipped and abused her before, because he couldn't abuse
her son. You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped
and tortured, and ground down under the heels of them that
you call masters ; and your laws trill bear you out in it, —
more shame for you and them ! But you have n't got us.
We don't own your laws ; we don't own your country ; we
stand here as free, under God's sky, as you are ; and, by the
great God that made us, we '11 fight for our liberty till we
die."

George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as he
made his declaration of independence ; the glow of dawn gave
a flush to his swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation and de-
spair gave fire to his dark eye ; and, as if appealing from man
to the justice of God, he raised his hand to heaven as he spoke.

If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely defend-
ing in some mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping
from Austria into America, this would have been sublime hero-
ism ; but as it was a youth of African descent, defending the
retreat of fugitives through America into Canada, of course we
are too well instructed and patriotic to see any heroism in it ;
and if any of our readers do, they must do it on their own
private responsibility. When despairing Hungarian fugitives
make their way, against all the search-warrants and authorities
of tl'.^ir lawful government, to America, press and political cab-
inet ring with applause and welcome. When despairing Afri-
can fugitives do the same thing, --it is — what is it 1

Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice,
manner, of the speaker, for a moment struck the party below
to silence. There is something in boldness and determination
that for a time hushes even the rudest nature. Marks was the

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 231

only one who remained wholly untouched. He was deliberately
cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence that followed
George's speech, he tired at him.

" Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Ken-
tucky," he said, coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-
sleeve.

George sprang backward, -- Eliza uttered a shriek, — the
ball had passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek
of his wife, and struck in the tree above.

" It 's nothing, Eliza," said George, quickly.

" Thee 'd better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying,"
said Phineas ; " they 're mean scamps."

" Now, Jim," said George, " look that your pistols are all
right, and watch that pass with me. The first man that shows
himself I h're at ; you take the second, and so on. It won't
do, you know, to waste two shots on one."

" But what if you don't hit rt "

11 1 shall hit," said George, coolly.

" Good ! now, there 's stuff in that fellow," muttered Phineas,
between his teeth.

The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment,
rather undecided.

" I think you must have hit some on 'em," said one of the
men. " I heard a squeal ! "

" I 'm going right up for one," said Tom. " I never was
afraid of niggers, and I an't going to be now. Who goes
after 1 " he said, springing up the rocks.

George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol,
examined it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where
the first man would appear.

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and,
the way being thus made, the whole party began pushing up
the rock, — the hindermost pushing the front ones faster than
they would have gone of themselves. On they came, and in a
moment the burly form of Tom appeared in sight, almost at
the verge of the chasm.

George fired, — the shot entered his side — but, though
wounded, he would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a
mad bull, he was leaping right across the chasm into the party.

" Friend," said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and
meeting him with a push from his long arms, " thee is n't
wanted here."

232

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

' 'Friend,' said Phiueas, meeting him with a push from his long arms, 'thee
is n't wanted here. ' "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 233

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees,
bushes, logs, loose stones, till he lay, bruised and groaning,
thirty feet below. The fall might have killed him, had it not
been broken and moderated by his clothes catching in the
branches of a large tree ; but he came down with some force,
however, — more than was at all agreeable or convenient.

" Lord help us, they are perfect devils ! " said Marks, head-
ing the retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than
he had joined the ascent, while all the party came tumbling
precipitately after him, — the fat constable, iu particular, blow-
ing and puffing in a very energetic manner.

" I say, fellers," said Marks, -' you jist go round and pick
up Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse, to go back
for help, — that's you"; and, without minding the hootings
and jeers of his company, Marks \vas as good as his word, and
was soon seen galloping away.

" Was ever such a sneaking varmint 1 " said one of the men ;
" to come on his business, and he clear out and leave us this
yer way ! "

"Well, we must pick up that feller," said another. " Cuss
me if I much care whether h-e is dead or alive."

The men, led by the groan? of Tom, scrambled nnd crackled
through stumps, logs, and bushes, to where that hero lay groan-
ing and swearing, with alternate vehemence.

"Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom," said one. "Ye
much hurt 1 "

" Don't know. Get me up, can't ye 1 Blast that infernal
Quaker ! If it had n't been for him, I 'd a pitched some on
'em down here, to see how they liked it."

With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted
to rise ; and, with one holding him up under each shoulder,
they got him as far as the horses.

"If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. j
Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place,
and stop this infernal bleeding."

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift
the burly form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three in-
effectual attempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.

" 0, I hope he is n't killed ! " said Eliza, who, with all the
party, stood watching the proceeding.

" Why not] " said Phineas ; " serves him right."

" Because, after death comes the judgment," said Eliza.

234 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Yes," said the old woman, who had been groaning and
praying, in her Methodist fashion, during all the encounter,
" it 's an awful case for the poor crittur's soul."

" On my word, they 're leaving him, I do believe," said
Phineas.

It was true ; for after some appearance of irresolution and
consultation, the whole party got on their horses and rode
away. When they were quite out of sight, Phineas began to
bestir himself.

" Well, we must go down and walk a piece," he said. " I
told Michael to go forward and bring help, and be along back
here with the wagon ; but we shall have to walk a piece along
the road, I reckon, to meet them. The Lord grant he be along
soon ! It 's early in the day ; there won't be much travel
afoot yet awhile ; we an't much more than two miles from
our stopping-place. If the road had n't been so rough last
night, we could have outrun 'em entirely."

As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the dis-
tance, along the road, their own wagon coming back, accom-
panied by some men on horseback.

" Well, now, there 's Michael, and Stephen, and Amariah,"
exclaimed Phineas, joyfully. " Now we are, made, — as safe
as if we 'd got there."

"Well, do stop, then," said Eliza, "and do something foi-
that poor man : he 's groaning dreadfully."

" It would be no more than Christian," said George ; " let 's
take him up and carry him on."

" And doctor him up among the Quakers ! " said Phineas ;
" pretty well, that ! Well, I don't care if we do. Here, let 's
have a look at him " ; and Phineas, who, in the course of his
hunting and backwoods life, had acquired some rude experi-
ence of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded man, and be-
gan a careful examination of his condition.

" Marks," said Tom, feebly, " is that you, Marks ? "

"No; I reckon 't an't, friend," said Phineas. "Much
Marks cares for thee, if his own skin 's safe. He 's off, long

ago."

" I believe I 'm done for," said Tom. " The cussed sneak-
ing dog, to leave me to die alone ! My poor old mother always
told me 't would be so."

" La sakes ! jist hear the poor crittur. He 's got a mammy,
now," said the old negress. " I can't help kinder pityin' on
him."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 235

" Softly, softly ; don't thee snap and snarl, friend," said
Phineas, as Tom winced and pushed his hand away. "Thee
has no chance, unless I stop the bleeding." And Phineas
busied himself with making some off-hand surgical arrange-
ments with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as could be
mustered in the company.

" You pushed me down there," said Tom, faintly.

" Well, if I had n't, thee would have pushed us down, thee
sees," said Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage.
"There, there, — let me fix this bandage. We mean well to
thee ; we bear no malice. Thee shall be taken to a house where
they '11 nurse thee iirst-rate, — as well as thy own mother
could."

Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigor
and resolution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with
the flowing of the blood ; and the gigantic fellow really looked
piteous in his helplessness.

The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of
the wagon. The buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread
all along one side, and four men, with great difficulty, lifted
the heavy form of Tom into it. Before he was gotten in, he
fainted entirely. The old negress, in the abundance of her
compassion, sat down on the bottom, and took his head in her
lap. Eliza, George, and Jim bestowed themselves, as well as
they could, in the remaining space, and the whole party set
forward.

" What do you think of him 1 " said George, who sat by
Phineas, in front.

" Well, it 's only a pretty deep flesh-wound ; but, then,
tumbling and scratching down that place didn't help him
much. It has bled pretty freely, - - pretty much dreaned him
out, courage and all, — but he '11 get over it, and may be learn
a thing or two by it."

" I 'm glad to hear you say so," said George. " It would
always be a heavy thought to me, if I 'd caused his death, even
in a just cause."

" Yes," said Phineas, " killing is an iigly operation, any way
they'll fix it, — man or beast. I've been a great hunter, in
my day, and I tell thee I 've seen a buck that was shot down,
and a dying, look that way on a feller with his eye, that it reely
most made a feller feel wicked for killing on him ; and human
creatures is a more serious consideration yet, bein', as thy wife

236

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

says, that the judgment comes to 'em after death. So I don't
know as our people's notions on these matters is too strict ;
and, considerin' how I was raised, I fell in with them pretty
considerably."

" What shall you do with this poor fellow 1 " said George.

" 0, carry him along to Amariah's. There 's old Grandmam
Stephens there, — Dorcas, they call her, — she's most an
jniazin' nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and an't
never better suited than when she getc a sick body to tend.
We may reckon on turning him over to her for a fortnight or
so."

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farm-
house, where the weary travellers were received to an abundant
breakfast. Tom Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much
cleaner arid softer bed than he had ever been in the habit of
occupying. His Avound was carefully dressed and bandaged,
and he lay languidly opening and shutting his eyes on .the
white window-curtains and gently gliding figures of his sick-
room, like a weary child. And here, for the present, we shall
take our leave of one party.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 237

CHAPTER XVIII.

MISS OPHELIA'S EXPERIENCES AND OPINIONS.

'UR friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often
compared his more fortunate lot, in the bondage
1 into which he was cast, with that of Joseph in
Egypt ; and, in fact, as time went on, and he
developed more and more under the eye of his
master, the strength of the parallel increased.

St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Hitherto the
providing and marketing had been principally done by Adolph,
who was, to the full, as careless and extravagant as his master ;
and, between them both, they had carried on the dispersing
process with great alacrity. Accustomed, for many years, to
regard his master's property as his own care, Tom saw, with an
uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the wasteful expenditure
of the establishment ; and, in the quiet, indirect way which his
class often acquire, would sometimes make his own suggestions.

St. Clare at first employed him occasionally ; but, struck with
his soundness of mind and good business capacity, he confided
in him more and more, till gradually all the marketing and
providing for the family were intrusted to him.

" No, no, Adolph," he said, one day, as Adolph was depre-
cating the passing of power out of his hands ; " let Tom alone.
You only understand what you want ; Tom understands cost
and come to ; and there may be some end to money, by and
by, if we don't let somebody do that."

Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, who
handed him a bill without looking at it, and pocketed the
change without counting it, Tom had every facility and temp-
tation to dishonesty ; and nothing but an impregnable simplicity
of nature, strengthened by Christian faith, could have kept him
from it. But, to that nature, the very unbounded trust reposed
in him was bond and seal for the most scrupulous accuracy.

With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless and

238 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

self-indulgent, and unrestrained by a master who found it easier
to indulge than to regulate, he had fallen into an absolute con-
fusion as to meum and tuum with regard to himself and his
master, which sometimes troubled even St. Clare. His own
good sense taught him that such a training of his servants was
unjust and dangerous. A sort of chronic remorse went with him
everywhere, although not strong enough to make any decided,
change in his course ; and this very remorse reacted again into
indulgence. He passed lightly over the most serious faults,
because he told himself that, if he had done his part, his de-
pendants had not fallen into them.

Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an
odd mixture of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That
he never read the Bible ; never went to church ; that he jested
and made free with any and every thing that came in the way
of his wit ; that he spent his Sunday evenings at the opera or
theatre ; that he went to wine parties, and clubs, and suppers
oftener than was at all expedient, — were all things that Tom
could see as plainly as anybody, and on which he based a con-
viction that " Mas'r was n't a Christian " ; — a conviction, how-
ever, which he would have been very slow to express to any one
else, but on which he founded many prayers, in his own simple
fashion, when he was by himself in his little dormitory. Not
that Tom had not his own way of speaking his mind occasion-
ally, with something of the tact often observable in his class ;
as, for example, the very day after the Sabbath we have de-
scribed, St. Clare was invited out to a convivial party of choice
spirits, and was helped home, between one and two o'clock at
night, in a condition when the physical had decidedly attained
the upper hand of the intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted
to get him composed for the night, the latter in high spirits,
evidently regarding the matter as a good joke, and laughing
heartily at the rusticity of Tom's horror, who really was simple
enough to lie awake most of the rest of the night, praying for
his young master.

" Well, Tom, what are you waiting for ? " said St. Clare, the
next day, as he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers.
St. Clare had just been intrusting Tom with some money, and
various commissions. " Is n't all right there, Tom 1 " he added,
as Tom still stood waiting.

" I 'in 'fraid not, Mas'r," said Tom, with a grave face.

St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup,
and looked at Tom.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 2<>9

" Why, Tom, what 's the case 1 You look as solemn as a
coffin."

" I feel very bad, Mas'r. I allays have thought that Mas'r
would be good to everybody."

" Well, Tom, have n't I been ] Come, now, what do you
want 1 There 's something you have n't got, I suppose, and
this is the preface."

" Mas'r allays been good to me. I have n't nothing to com-
plain of, on that head. But there is one that Mas'r is n't good
to."

"Why, Tom, what's got into you1? Speak out; what do
you mean ! "

" Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied
upon the matter then. Mas'r is n't good to Itimself."

Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on
the door-knob. St. Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he
laughed.

" 0, that 's all, is it 1 " he said, gayly.

" All ! " said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on
his knees. " 0, my dear young Mas'r ! I 'm 'fraid it will be
loss of all — all - - body and soul. The good Book says, ' it
biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder ! ' my dear
Mas'r ! "

Tom's voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks.

" You poor, silly fool ! " said St. Clare, with tears in his own
eyes. " Get up, Tom. I 'm not worth crying over."

But Tom would n't rise, and looked imploring.

" Well, I won't go to any more of their cursed nonsense,
Tom," said St. Clare ; " on my honor, I won't. 1 don't know
why I have n't stopped long ago. I 've always despised it, and
myself for it, — so now, Tom, wipe up your eyes, and go about
your errands. Come, come," he added, " no blessings. I 'm
not so wonderfully good, now," he said, as he gently pushed
Tom to the door. " There, I '11 pledge my honor to you, Tom,
you don't see me so again," he said ; and Tom went off, wiping
his eyes, with great satisfaction.

" I '11 keep my faith with him, too," said St. Clare, as he
closed the door.

And St. Clare did so, — for gross sensualism, in any form,
was not the peculiar temptation of his nature.

But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations manifold
of our friend Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labors of a
southern housekeeper ?

240 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

There is all the difference in the world in the servants ol
southern establishments, according to the character and capa-
city of the mistresses who have brought them up.

South as well as north, there are women who have an ex-
traordinary talent for command, and tact in educating. Such
are enabled, with apparent ease, and without severity, to sub-
ject to their will, and bring into harmonious and systematic
order, the various members of their small estate, — to regulate
their peculiarities, and so balance and compensate the deficien-
cies of one by the excess of another, as to produce a harmonious
and orderly system.

Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have al-
ready described ; and such our readers may remember to have
met with. If they are not common at the south, it is because
they are not common in the world. They are to be found
there as often as anywhere ; and, when existing, find in that
peculiar state of society a brilliant opportunity to exhibit their
domestic talent.

Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare. was not, nor her mother
before her. Indolent and childish, unsystematic and improvi-
dent, it was not to be expected that servants trained under her
care should not be so likewise ; and she had very justly de-
scribed to Miss Ophelia the state of confusion she would find
in the family, though she had not ascribed it to the proper
cause.

The first morning of her regency, Miss Ophelia was up at
four o'clock ; and having attended to all the adjustments of
her own chamber, as she had done ever since she came there,
to the great amazement of the chambermaid, she prepared for
a vigorous onslaught on the cupboards and closets of the estab-
lishment of which she had the keys.

The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the
kitchen and cellar, that day, all went under an awful review.
Hidden things of darkness were brought to light to an extent
that alarmed all the principalities and powers of kitchen and
chamber, and caused many wonderings and murmurings about
" dese yer northern ladies " from the domestic cabinet.

Old Dinah, the head cook, and principal of all rule and
authority in the kitchen department, was filled with wrath at
what she considered an invasion of privilege. No feudal baron
in Magna Charta times could have more thoroughly resented
some incursion of the crown.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 241

Dinah was a character in her own way, and it would be in-
justice to her memory not to give the reader a little idea of her.
She was a native and essential cook, as much as Aunt Chloe,
— cooking being an indigenous talent of the African race ; but
Chloe was a trained and methodical one, who moved in an
orderly domestic harness, while Dinah was a self-taught genius,
ind, like geniuses in general, was positive, opinionated, and er-
ratic, to the last degree.

Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly
scorned logic and reason in every shape, and always took ref-
uge in intuitive certainty ; and here she was perfectly impreg-
nable. No possible amount of talent, or authority, or explana-
tion could ever make her believe that any other way was better
than her own, or that the course she had pursued in the small-
est matter could be in the least modified. This had been a
conceded point with her old mistress, Marie's mother ; and
" Miss Marie," as Dinah always called her young mistress,
even after her marriage, found it easier to submit than con-
tend ; and so Dinah had ruled supreme. This was the easier,
in that she was perfect mistress of that diplomatic art which
unites the utmost subservience of manner with the utmost in-
flexibility as to measure.

Dinah was mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-
making, in all its branches. Indeed, it was an axiom with
her that the cook can do no wrong ; and a cook in a
southern kitchen finds abundance of heads and shoulders on
which to lay off every sin and frailty, so as to maintain her
own immaculateness entire. If any part of the dinner was a
failure, there were fifty indisputably good reasons for it ; and
it was the fault undeniably of fifty other people, whom Dinah
berated with unsparing zeal.

But it was very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah's
last results. Though her mode of doing everything was pecul-
iarly meandering and circuitous, and without any sort of calcu-
lation as to time and place, — though her kitchen generally
looked as if it had been arranged by a hurricane blowing
through it, and she had about as many places for each cooking
utensil as there were days in the year, --yet, if one would
have patience to wait her own good time, up would come her
dinner in perfect order, and in a style of preparation with
which an epicure could find no fault.

It was now the season of incipient preparation for dinner.

242 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

Dinah, who required large intervals of reflection and repose,
and was studious of ease in all her arrangements, was seated on
the kitchen floor, smoking a short, stumpy pipe, to which she
was much addicted, and which she always kindled up, as a sort
of censer, whenever she felt the need of an inspiration in her
arrangements. It was Dinah's mode of invoking the domestic
Muses.

Seated around her were various members of that rising race
with which a southern household abounds, engaged in shelling
peas, peeling potatoes, picking pin-feathers out of fowls, and
other preparatory arrangements, — Dinah every once in a while
interrupting her meditations to give a poke, or a rap on the
head, to some of the young operators, with the pudding-stick that
lay by her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of
the younger members with a rod of iron, and seemed to con-
sider them born for no earthly purpose but to "save her steps,"
as she phrased it. It was the spirit of the system under which
she had grown up, and she carried it out to its full extent.

Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through
all the other parts of the establishment, now entered the
kitchen. Dinah had heard, from various sources, what was
going on, and resolved to stand on defensive and conservative
ground, — mentally determined to oppose and ignore every
new measure, without any actual and observable contest.

The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a great
old-fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of it, — an ar-
rangement which St. Clare had vainly tried to persuade Dinah
to exchange for the convenience of a modern cook-stove. Not
she. No Pnseyite, or conservative of any school, was ever
more inflexibly attached to time-honored inconveniences than
Dinah.

When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressed
with the system and order of his uncle's kitchen arrangements,
he had largely provided his own with an array of cupboards,
drawers, and various apparatus, to induce systematic regulation,
under the sanguine illusion that it would be of any possible as-
sistance to Dinah in her arrangements. He might as well have
provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The more drawers
and closets there were, the more hiding-holes could Dinah make
for the accommodation of old rags, hair-combs, old shoes, rib-
bons, cast-off artificial flowers, and other articles of vertu,
wher-ein her soul delighted.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

243

244

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen, Dinah did not rise,
but smoked on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements
obliquely out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent
only on the operations around her.

Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.

" What is this drawer for, Dinah 1 " she said.

"It's handy for most anything, Missis," said Dinah. So il
appeared to be. From the variety it contained, Miss Ophelia
pulled out first a fine damask table-cloth stained with blood,
having evidently been used to envelop some raw meat.

" What 's this, Dinah ? You don't wrap up meat in your
mistress's best table-cloths 1 "

" 0 Lor, Missis, no ; the towels was all a missin', — so 1
jest did it. I laid out to wash that ar, — that 's why I put it
thar."

" Shifless ! " said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 245

tumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and
two or three nutmegs, a Methodist hymn-book, a couple of
soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn and knitting-work, a
paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or two gilded
china saucers with some pomade in them, one or two thin old
shoes, a piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing some small
white onions, several damask table-napkins, some coarse crash
towels, some twine and darning-needles, and several broken
papers, from which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the
drawer.

" Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah ? " said Miss
Ophelia, with the air of one who prayed for patience.

" Most anywhar, Missis ; there 's some in that cracked tea-
cup, up there, and there 's some over in that ar cupboard."

" Here are some in the grater," said Miss Ophelia, holding
them up.

" Laws, yes, I put 'em there this morning, -- 1 likes to keep
my things handy," said Dinah. " You, Jake ! what are you
stopping for ! You '11 cotch it ! Be still, that ! " she added,
with a dive of her stick at the criminal.

" What 's this ? " said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of
pomade.

"Laws, it's my har grease ;--! put it thar to have it
handy."

" Do you use your mistress's best saucers for that 1 "

" Law ! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry ; — I
•was gwine to change it this very day."

" Here are two damask table-napkins."

" Them table-napkins I put thar, to get 'em washed out,
some day."

" Don't you have some place here on purpose for things to
be washed 1 "

" Well, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat ;
but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some
days, and then it an't handy a liftin' up the lid."

"Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table,
there 1 "

" Law, Missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and
another, der an't no room, noways —

" But you should ivash your dishes, and clear them away."

" Wash my dishes ! " said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath
began to rise over her habitual respect of manner ; " what does

24ti UNCL2 TOM'S CABIN; OR,

ladies know 'bout work, I want to know 1 When 'd Mas'r evei
get his dinner, if I was to spend all ruy time a washin' and a
puttin' up dishes 1 Miss Marie never telled me so, no how."

" Well, here are these onions."

" Laws, yes ! " said Dinah ; " thar is whar I put 'em, now. i
could n't 'member. Them 's particular onions I was a savin'
for dis ver very stew. I 'd forgot they was in dat ar old
flannel.""

Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs.

" I wish Missis would n't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my
things where I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather
decidedly.

" But you don't want these holes in the papers."

" Them 's handy for siftin' on 't out," said Dinah.

" But you see it spills all over the drawer."

" Laws, yes ! if Missis will go a tumblin' things all up so,
it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way," said Dinah, coming
uneasily to the drawers. " If Missis only will go up stars till
my clarin' up time comes, I '11 have everything right ; but I
can't do nothin' when ladies is round, a henderin'. You, Sam,
don't you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl ! I '11 crack ye over,
if ye don't mind ! "

" I 'm going through the kitchen, and going to put every-
thing in order, once, Dinah ; and then I '11 expect you to keep
it so."

" Lor, now ! Miss Phelia ; dat ar an't no way for ladies to
do. I never did see ladies doin' no sich ; my old Missis nor
Miss Marie never did, and I don't see no kinder need on 't " ;
and Dinah stalked indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled
and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of sugar
into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths, and towels, for
washing ; washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands,
and with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.

" Lor, now ! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey
an't ladies, no how," she said to some of her satellites, when at
?i safe hearing distance. " I has things as straight as anybody,
when my clarin' up time comes ; but 1 don't want ladies round,
a henderin', and getting my things all where I can't find 'em."

To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxysms
of reformation and arrangement, which she called " clarin' up
times," when she would begin with great zeal, and turn every
drawer and closet wrong side outward, on to the floor or tables,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 247

and make the ordinary confusion sevenfold more confounded.
Then she would light her pipe, and leisurely go over her ar-
rangements, looking things over, and discoursing upon them :
making all the young fry scour most vigorously on the tin
things, and keeping up for several hours a most energetic state
of confusion, which she would explain to the satisfaction of all
inquirers, by the remark that she was a " clarin' up." " She
could n't hev things a gwine on so as they had been, and she
was gwine to make these yer young ones keep better order " ;
for Dinah herself, some how, indulged the illusion that she, her-
self, was the soul of order, and it was only the young uns, and
the everybody else in the house, that were the cause of any-
thing that fell short of perfection in this respect. When all the
tins were scoured, and the tables scrubbed snowy white, and
everything that could offend tucked out of sight in holes and
corners, Dinah would dress herself up in a smart dress, clean
apron, and high, brilliant Madras turban, and tell all marauding
" young uns " to keep out of the kitchen, for she was gwine to
have things kept nice. Indeed, these periodic seasons were
often an inconvenience to the whole household ; for Dinah
would contract such an immoderate attachment to her scoured
tin, as to insist upon it that it should n't be used again for any
possible purpose, — at least, till the ardor of the " clarin' up "
period abated.

Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every de-
partment of the house to a systematic pattern ; but her labors
in all departments that depended on the co-operation of ser-
vants were like those of Sisyphus or the Danaides. In despair,
she one day appealed to St. Clare.

" There is no such thing as getting anything like system in
this family ! "

" To be sure, there is n't," said St. Clare.

" Such shiftless management, such waste, such confusion, I
never saw ! "

" I dare say you did n't."

" You would not take it so coolly, if you were housekeeper."

" My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for all,
that we masters are divided into two classes, oppressors and
oppressed. We who are good-natured and hate severity make
Hp our minds to a good deal of inconvenience. If we will keep
a shambling, loose, untaught set in the community, for our con-
venience, why, we must take the consequence. Some rare cases

248 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

I have seen, of persons, who, by a peculiar tact, can produce
order and system without severity ; but I 'm not one of them,
- and so I made up my mind, long ago, to let things go just
as they do. I will not have the poor devils thrashed and cut
to pieces, and they know it, — and, of course, they know the
staff is in their own hands."

" But to have no time, no place, no order, — all going on in
this shiftless way ! "

" My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North Pole set
an extravagant value on time ! What on earth is the use of
time to a fellow who has twice as much of it as he knows what
to do with 1 As to order and system, where there is nothing
to be done but to lounge on the sofa and read, an hour sooner
or later in breakfast or dinner is n't of much account. Now,
there 's Dinah gets you a capital dinner, — soup, ragout, roast
fowl, dessert, ice-creams, and all, — and she creates it all out of
chaos and old night down there, in that kitchen. I think it
really sublime, the way she manages. But, Heaven bless us !
if we are to go down there, and view all the smoking and
squatting about, and hurryscurryation of the preparatory pro-
cess, we should never eat more ! My good cousin, absolve
yourself from that ! It 's more than a Catholic penance, and
does no more good. You '11 only lose your own temper, and
utterly confound Dinah. Let her go her own way."

" But, Augustine, you don't know how I found things."

" Don't I ] Don't I know that the rolling-pin is under her
bed, and the nutmeg-grater in her pocket with her tobacco, —
that there are sixty-five different sugar-bowls, one in every hole
in the house, --that she washes dishes with a dinner-napkin
one day, and with a fragment of an old petticoat the next 1
But the upshot is, she gets up glorious dinners, makes superb
coffee ; and you must judge her as warriors and statesmen are
judged, by her success."

" But the waste, — the expense ! "

" 0, well ! Lock everything you can, and keep the key.
Give out by driblets, and never inquire for odds and ends, —
it is n't best."

" That troubles me, Augustine. I can't help feeling as if
these servants were not strictly honest. Are you sure they can
be relied on ] "

Augustine laughed immoderately at the grave and anxious
face with which Miss Ophelia propounded the question.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 249

" 0, cousin, that 's too good, — honest ! — as if that 's a thing
io be expected ! Honest ! - - why, of course, t.hey arn't. Why
should they be ] What upon earth is to make them so "? "

" Why don't you instruct 1 "

" Instruct ! 0, fiddlestick ! What instructing do you think
I should do ] I look like it ! As to Marie, she has spirit
bAough, to be sure, to kill off a whole plantation, if I 'd let her
manage ; but she would n't get the cheatery out of them."

"Are there no honest ones'?"

" Well, now and then one, whom Nature makes so impracti-
cably simple, truthful, and faithful, that the worst possible
influence can't destroy it. But, you see, from the mother's
breast the colored child feels and sees that there are none but
underhand ways open to it. It can get along no other way
with its parents, its mistress, its ypung master and missie play-
fellows. Cunning and deception become necessary, inevitable
habits. It is n't fair to expect anything else of him. He ought
not to be punished for it. As to honesty, the slave is kept in
that dependent, semi-childish state, that there is no making him
realize the rights of property, or feel that his master's goods are
not his own, if he can get them. For my part, I don't see how
they can be honest. Such a fellow as Tom, here, is — is a
moral miracle ! "

"And what becomes of their souls'? " said Miss Ophelia.

" That is n't my affair, as I know of," said St. Clare ; " I am
only dealing in facts of the present life. The fact is, that the
whole race are pretty generally understood to be turned over to
the devil, for our benefit, in this world, however it may turn
out in another ! "

" This is perfectly horrible ! " said Miss Ophelia ; " you ought
to be ashamed of yourselves ! "

" I don't know as I am. We are in pretty good company,
for all that," said St. Clare, "as people in the broad road gen-
erally are. Look at the high and the low, all the world over,
and it 's the same story, — the lower class used up, body, soul,
and spirit, for the good of the upper. It is so in England ; it
is so everywhere ; and yet all Christendom stands aghast, with
virtuous indignation, because we do the thing in a little differ-
ent shape from what they do it."

" It is n't so in Vermont."

" Ah, well, in New England, and in the free states, you have
the better of us, J grant. But there 's the bell ; so, cousin, let

250 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

us for a while lay aside our sectional prejudices, and come out
to dinner."

As Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen in the latter part of the
afternoon, some of the sable children called out, " La, sakes 1
thar 's Prue a coming, grunting along like she allers does."

A tall, bony colored woman now entered the kitchen, bear-
ing on her head a basket of rusks and hot rolls.

" Ho, Prue ! you 've come," said Dinah.

Prue had a peculiar scowling expression of countenance, and
a sullen, grumbling voice. She set down her basket, squatted
herself down, and, resting her elbows on her knees, said, —

" 0 Lord ! I wish 't I 's dead ! "

" Why do you wish you were dead 1 " said Miss Ophelia.

" I 'd be out o' my misery," said the woman, gruffly, without
taking her eyes from the floor.

" What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up, Prue ? "
said a spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as she spoke, a
pair of coral ear-drops.

The woman looked at her with a sour, surly glance.

" Maybe you '11 come to it, one of these yer days. I 'd be
glad to see you, I would ; then you '11 be glad of a drop, like
me, to forget your misery."

"Come, Prue," said Dinah, " let's look at your rusks.
Here 's Missis will pay for them."

Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen.

"Thar's some tickets in that ar old cracked jug on the top
shelf," said Dinah. " You, Jake, climb up and get it down."

"Tickets, — what are they for1?" said Miss Ophelia.

" We buys tickets of her Mas'r, and she gives us bread for

'em."

"And they counts my money and tickets, when I gets home,
to see if I 's got the change ; and if I han't, they half kills

me."

"And serves you right," said Jane, the pert chambermaid,
" if you will take their money to get drunk on. That 's what
she does, Missis."

"And that 's what I will do, — I can't live no other ways, —
drink and forget my misery."

" You are very wicked and very foolish," said Miss Ophelia,
"to steal your master's money to make yourself a brute with."

" It 's mighty likely, Missis ; but I will do it, — yes, I will.
0 Lord ! I wish I 's dead, I do. — I wish I 's dead, and out

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

251

of my misery ! " and slowly and stiffly the old creature rose, and
got her basket on her head again ; but before she went out, she
looked at the quadroon girl, who still stood playing with her
ear-drops.

" Ye think ye 're mighty fine with them ar, a frolickin' and
a tossin' your head, and a lookin' down on everybody. Well,
never mind, — you may live to be a poor, old, cut-up crittur,

like me. Hope to the Lord ye will, I do ; then see if ye won't
drink — drink — drink — yerself into torment ; and sarve ye
right, too, — ugh ! " and, with a malignant howl, the woman left
the room.

" Disgusting old beast ! " said Adolph, who was getting his
master's shaving-water. " If I was her master, I 'd cut her
up worse than she is."

" Ye could n't do that ar, no ways," said Dinah. " Her
back 's a far sight now, — she can't never get a dress together
over it."

252 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" I think such low creatures ought not to be allowed to go
round to genteel families," said Miss Jane. " What do you
think, Mr. St. Clare ? " she said, coquettishly tossing her head
at Adolph.

It must be observed that, among other appropriations from
his master's stock, Adolph was in the habit of adopting his
name and address; and that the style under which he moved,
among the colored circles of New Orleans, was that of Mr. St.
Clare.

" I 'm certainly of your opinion, Miss Benoir," said Adolph.

Benoir was the name of Marie St. Clare's family, and Jane
was one of her servants.

"Pray, Miss Benoir, may I be allowed to ask if those drops
are for the ball, to-morrow night 1 They are certainly bewitch-
ing !"

" I wonder, now, Mr. St. Clare, what the impudence of you
men will come to!" said Jane, tossing her pretty head till the
ear-drops twinkled again. " I shan't dance with you for a
whole evening, if you go to asking me any more questions."

" O, you could n't be so cruel, now ! I was just dying to
know whether you would appear in your pink tarlatan," said
Adolph.

" What is it ] " said Eosa, a bright, piquant little quadroon,
who came skipping down stairs at this moment.

" Why, Mr. St. Clare 's so impudent ! "

" On my honor," said Adolph, " I '11 leave it to Miss Eosa,

now."

" I know he 's always a saucy creature," said Eosa, poising
herself on one of her little feet, and looking maliciously at
Adolph. " He 's always getting me so angry with him."

" O, ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart, be-
tween you," said Adolph. " I shall be found dead in my bed,
some morning, and you '11 have it to answer for."

" Do hear the horrid creature talk ! " said both ladies, laugh-
ing immoderately.

" Come, — clar out, you ! I can't have you cluttering up
the kitchen," said Dinah ; " in my way, foolin' round here."

" Aunt Dinah 's glum, because she can't go to the ball," said
Eosa.

"Don't want none o' your light-colored balls," said Dinah ;
" cuttin' round, makin' b lieve you 's white folks. Arter all,
you 's niggers, much as I am."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 253

" Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiff, every day, to make it
lie straight," said Jane.

" And it will be wool, after all," said Rosa, maliciously shak-
ing down her long, silky curls.

" Well, in the Lord's sight, an't wool as good as har any
time1?" said Dinah. "I'd like to have Missis say which is
worth the most, — a couple such as you, or one like me. Get
out wid ye, ye trumpery, -- I won't have ye round ! "

Here the conversation was interrupted in a twofold manner.
St. Clare's voice was heard at the head of the stairs, asking
Adolph if he meant to stay all night with his shaving water ;
and Miss Ophelia, coming out of the dining-room, said, -

" Jane and Rosa, what are you wasting your time for, here 1
Go in and attend to your muslins."

Our friend Tom, who had been in the kitchen during the
conversation with the old rusk- woman, had followed her out
into the street. He saw her go on, giving every once in a
while a suppressed groan. At last she set her basket down on
a doorstep, and began arranging the old, faded shawl which
covered her shoulders.

" I '11 carry your basket a piece," said Tom, compassionately.

" Why should ye 1 " said the woman. " I don't want no
help."

" You seem to be sick, or in trouble, or somethin'," said
Tom.

" I an't sick," said the woman, shortly.

" I wish," said Tom, looking at her earnestly, — "I wish I
could persuade you to leave off drinking. Don't you know it
will be the ruin of ye, body and soul ? "

" I knows I 'm gwine to torment," said the woman, sullenly.
" Ye don't need to tell me that ar. I 's ugly, — I 's wicked,
- — I 's gwine straight to torment. 0, Lord ! I wish I 's thar ! "

Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with a sul-
len, impassioned earnestness.

" 0, Lord have mercy on ye ! poor crittur. Han't ye never
heard of Jesus Christ *? "

" Jesus Christ, — who 's he 1 "

" Why, he 's the Lord" said Tom.

" I think I Ve hearn tell o' the Lord, and the judgment and
torment. I 've heard o' that."

'• But did n't anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus, that
loved us poor sinners, and died for us 1 "

254 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Don't know nothin' 'bout that," said the woman ; " nobody
han't never loved me, since niy old man died."

" Where was you raised ] " said Tom.

" Up in Kentuck. A man kept me to breed ehil'en for mar-
ket, and sold 'em as fast as they got big enough ; last of all, he
sold me to a speculator, and my Mas'r got me o' him."

" What set you into this bad way of drinkin' 1 "

" To get shet o' my misery. I had one child after I come
here ; and I thought then I 'd have one to raise, cause Mas'r
was n't a speculator. It was de peartest little thing ! and
Missis she seemed to think a heap on 't, at first ; it never cried,
— it was likely and fat. But Missis tuck sick, and I tended
her ; and I tuck the fever, and my milk all left me, and the
child it pined to skin and bone, and Missis wouldn't buy milk
for it. She would n't hear to me, when I telled her I had n't
milk. She said she knowed I could feed it on what other folks
eat; and the child kinder pined, and cried, and cried, and cried,
day and night, and got all gone to skin and bones, and Missis
got sot agin it, and she said 't warn't nothin' but crossness. She
wished it was dead, she said ; and she would n't let me have it
o' nights, 'cause, she said, it kept me awake, and made me good,
for nothing. She made me sleep in her room ; and I had to put
it away off in a little kind o' garret, and thar it cried itself to
death, one night. It did ; and I tuck to drinkin', to keep its
crying out of my ears ! I did, — and I will drink ! I will, if
I do go to torment for it ! Mas'r says I shall go to torment,
and I tell him I 've got thar now ! "

" 0, ye poor crittur ! " said Tom, "han't nobody never telled
ye how the Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye ? Han't they
telled ye that he '11 help ye, and ye can go to heaven, and have
rest, at last ] "

" I looks like gwine to heaven," said the woman ; " an't thai
where white folks is gwine 1 S'pose they 'd have me thar 1
I 'd rather go to torment, and get away from Mas'r and Missis.
I had so," she said, as, with her usual groan, she got her basket
on her head, and walked sullenly away.

Tom turned, and walked sorrowfully back to the house. In
the court he met little Eva, — a crown of tuberoses on hei
head, a,nd her eyes radiant with delight.

" O, Tom ! here you are. I 'm glad I 've found you. Papa
says you may get out the ponies, and take me in my little new
carriage," she said, catching his hand. " But what 's the mat-
ter, Tom 1 — you look sober."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 255

" I feel bad, Miss Eva," said Tom, sorrowfully. " But I '11
get the horses for you."

" But do tell me, Tom, what is the matter. I saw you talk-
ing to cross old Prue."

Tom, in simple, earnest phrase, told Eva the woman's his-
tory. She did not exclaim, or wonder, or weep, as other chil-
dren do. Her cheeks grew pale, and a deep, earnest shadow
passed over her eyes. She laid both hands on her bosom, and
sighed heavily.

256 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

CHAPTEE XIX.

MISS OPHELIA'S EXPERIENCES AND OPINIONS, CONTINUED.

OM, you need n't get me the horses. I don't want
to go," she said.

" Why not, Miss Eva?"

" These things sink into my heart, Tom," said
Eva, — " they sink into my heart," she repeated,
earnestly. " I don't want to go " ; and she turned from Tom,
and went into the house.

A few days after, another woman came, in old Prue's place,
to bring the rusks ; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen.

" Lor ! " said Dinah, " what 's got Prue ? "

" Prue is n't coming any more," said the woman, mysteri-
ously.

" Why not 1 " said Dinah. " She an't dead, is she 1 "

" We does n't exactly know. She 's down cellar," said the
woman, glancing at Miss Ophelia.

After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Dinah followed the
woman to the door.

" What has got Prue, any how 1 " she said.

The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and
answered, in a low, mysterious tone, — -

" Well, you must n't tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk agin,
- and they had her down cellar, — and thar they left her all
day, — and I hearn 'eni saying that the flies had got to her, —
and she 's dead ! "

Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by he!
side the spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyes
dilated with horror, and every drop of blood driven from her
lips and cheeks.

" Lor bless us ! Miss Eva 's gwine to faint away ! What
got us all, to let her bar such talk 1 Her pa '11 be rail mad."

" I shan't faint, Dinah," said the child, firmly; "and why
should n't I hear it ] It an't so much for me to hear it. as for
poor Prue to suffer it."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

257

" Lor sakes ! it is n't for sweet, delicate young ladies, like
you, — these yer stories is n't ; it 's enough to kill 'em ! "

Eva sighed again, and walked up stairs with a slow and
melancholy step.

Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman's story. Dinah
gave a very garrulous version of it, to which Torn added the
particulars which he had drawn from her that morning.

"An abominable business, -- perfectly horrible!" she ex-
claimed, as she entered the room where St. Clare lay reading
his paper.

" Pray, what iniquity has turned up now ] " said he.

" What now 1 why, those folks have whipped Prue to death ! "
said Miss Ophelia, going on, with £reat strength of detail, into
the story, and enlarging on its most shocking particulars.

" I thought it would come to that, some time," said St. Clare,
going on with his paper.

" Thought so ! — an't you going to do anything about it ? "
said Miss Ophelia. " Have n't you got any selectmen, or any-
body, to interfere and look after such matters ? "

" It 's commonly supposed that the property interest is a
sufficient guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin their
own possessions, I don't know what 's to be done. It seems
the poor creaturj was a ttiief and a drunkard ; and so then
won't be much hope to get up sympathy for hei\"

"It is perfectly outragec is, -- it is horrid, Augustine! It
will certainly bring down vengeance upon you."

" My dear cousin, I did n't do it, and I can't help it ; I would,
if I could. If low-minded, brutal people will act like them-
selves, what am I to do 1 They have absolute control ; they

258 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

are irresponsible despots. There would be no use in interfering ;
there is no law that amounts to anything practically, for such a
case. The best we can do is to shut our eyes and ears, and let
it alone. It 's the only resource left us."

" How can you shut your eyes and ears 1 How can you let
such things alone ] "

" My dear child, what do you expect 1 Here is a whole
class, — debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking, -- put, with-
out any sort of terms or conditions, entirely into the hands of
such people as the majority in our world are ; people who have
neither consideration nor self-control, who have n't even an
enlightened regard to their own interest, — for that 's the case
with the largest half of mankind. Of course, in a community
so organized, what can a man of honorable and humane feelings
do, but shut his eyes all he can, and harden his heart ] I can't
buy every poor wretch I see. I can't turn knight-errant, and
undertake to redress every individual case of wrong in such a
city as this. The most I can do is to try and keep out of the
way of it."

St. Clare's fine countenance was for a moment overcast ; he
looked annoyed, but, suddenly calling up a gay smile, he said, —

" Come, cousin, don't stand there looking like one of the
Fates ; yon 've only seen a peep through the curtain, — a
specimen of what is going on, the world over, in some shape or
other. If we are to be prying and spying into all the dismals
of life, we should have no heart to anything. "T is like looking
too close into the details of Dinah's kitchen " ; and St. Clare
lay back on the sofa, and busied himself with his paper.

Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-work,
and sat there grim with indignation. She knit and knit, but
while she mused the fire burned ; at last she broke out, —

" I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so, if you can.
It 's a perfect abomination for you to defend such a system, —
that 's my mind ! "

" What now 1 " said St. Clare, looking up. "At it again, hey 1 "

" I say it 's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a
system ! " said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth.

" / defend it, my dear lady 1 Who ever said I did defend
it 1 " said St. Clare.

" Of course, you defend it, — you all do, — all you South-
erners. What do you have slaves for, if you don't 1 "

"Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 259

this world ever does what they don't think is right 1 Don't
you, or did n't you ever, do anything that you did not think
.quite right]"

" If I do, I repent of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia, rat-
tling her needles with energy.

" So do I," said St. Clare, peeling his orange ; " I 'm re
penting of it all the time."

" What do you keep on doing it for ? "

" Did n't you ever keep on doing wrong, after you 'd re-
pented, my good cousin 1 "

" Well, only when I 've been very much tempted," said Miss
Ophelia.

" Well, I 'm very much tempted," said St. Clare ; " that 's
just my difficulty."

" But I always resolve I won't, and I try to break off."

" Well, I have been resolving I won't, off and on, these ten
years," said St. Clare ; " but I have n't, some how, got clear.
Have you got clear of all your sins, cousin?"

" Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and lay-
ing down her knitting-work, " I suppose I deserve that you
should reprove my shortcomings. I know all you say is true
enough ; nobody else feels them more than I do ; but it does
seem to me, after all, there is some difference between me and
you. It seems to me I would cut off my right hand sooner
than keep on, from day to day, doing what I thought was wrong.
But, then, my conduct is so inconsistent with my profession, I
don't wonder you reprove me."

" O, now, cousin," said Augustine, sitting down on the floor,
and laying his head back in her lap, " don't take on so awfully
serious ! You know what a good-for.-nothing, sauCy boy I al-
ways was. I love to poke you up, — that 's all, — just to see
you get earnest. I do think you are desperately, distressingly
good ; it tires me to death to think of it."

" But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste," said Miss
Ophelia, laying her hand on his forehead.

" Dismally so," said he ; " and I - - well, I never want to
talk seriously in hot weather. What with mosquitoes and all, a
fellow can't get himself up to any very sublime moral flights ;
and I believe," said St. Clare, suddenly rousing himself up,
" there 's a theory, now ! I understand now why northern
nations are always more virtuous than southern ones, --I see
into that whole subject."

260 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" 0, Auguste, you are a sad rattlebrain ! "

" Am I 'I Well, so I am, I suppose ; but for once I will be
serious, now ; but you must hand me that basket of oranges ; — •
you see, you '11 have to ' stay me with flagons and comfort me
with apples/ if I 'm going to make this effort. Now," said
Augustine, drawing the basket up, " I '11 begin : When, in
the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a fellow
to hold two or three dozen of his fellow-worms in captivity, a
decent regard to the opinions of society requires -

" I don't see that you are growing more serious," said Miss
Ophelia.

" Wait, -- 1 'm coming on, — you '11 hear. The short of the
matter is, cousin," said he, his handsome face suddenly set-
tling into an earnest and serious expression, " on this abstract
question of slavery there can, as I think, be but one opinion.
Planters, who have money to make by it, — clergymen, who
have planters to please, - - politicians, who want to rule by it,
— may warp and bend language and ethics to a degree that
shall astonish the world at their ingenuity ; they can press na-
ture and the Bible, and nobody knows what else, into the ser-
vice ; but, after all, neither they nor the world believe in it one
particle the more. It comes from the devil, that 's the short of
it; — and, to my mind, it 's a pretty respectable specimen of
what he can do in his own line."

Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised ;
and St. Clare, apparently enjoying her astonishment, went on.

"You seem to wonder; but if you will get me fairly at it,
I '11 make a clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed
of God and man, what is it ] Strip it of all its ornament, run
it down to the root and nucleus of the whole, and what is it?
Why, because my brother Quashy is ignorant and weak, and I
am intelligent and strong, -- because I know how, and can do
it, — therefore, I may steal all he has, keep it, and give him
only such and so much as suits my fancy. Whatever is too
hard, too dirty, too disagreeable, for me, I may set Qnashy tc
doing. Because I don't like work, Quashy shall work. Be-
cause the sun burns me, Quashy shall stay in the sun. Quashy
shall earn the money, and I will spend it. Quashy shall lie
down in every puddle, that I may walk over dry-shod. Quashy
shall do my will, and not his, all the days of his mortal life,
and have such chance of getting to heaven, at last, as I find
convenient. This I take to be about Avhat slavery is. I defy

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 261

anybody on earth to read our slave-code, as it stands in our
law-books, and make anything else of it. Talk of the abuses of
slavery ! Humbug ! The thing itself is the essence of all
abuse ! And the 'only reason why the land don't sink under
it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is because it is used in a way
infinitely better than it is. For pity's sake, for shame's sake,
because we are men born of women, and not savage beasts,
many of us do not, and dare not, — we would scorn to use tl.e
full power which our savage laws put into our hands. And
he who goes the furthest, and does the worst, only uses within
limits the power that the law gives him."

St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when ex-
cited, was walking, with hurried steps, up and down the floor.
His fine face, classic as that of a Greek statue, seemed actually
to burn with the fervor of his feelings. His large blue eyes
flashed, and he gestured with an unconscious eagerness. Miss
Ophelia had never seen him in this mood before, and she sat
perfectly silent.

" I declare to you," said he, suddenly stopping before his
cousin, — " it 's no sort of use to talk or to feel on this subject,
— but I declare to you, there have been times when I have
thought, if the whole country would sink, and hide all this in-
justice and misery from the light, I would willingly sink with
it. When I have been travelling up and down on our boats,
or about on my collecting tours, and reflected that every brutal,
disgusting, mean, low-lived fellow I met, was allowed by our
laws to become absolute desput of as many men, women, and
children, as he could cheat, steal, or gamble money enough to
buy, — when I have seen such men in actual ownership of
helpless children, of young girls and women, — I have been
ready to curse my country, to curse the human race !

" Augustine ! Augustine ! " said Miss Ophelia, " I 'in sure
you 've said enough. I never, in my life, heard anything like
this, even at the north."

" At the north ! " said St. Clare, with a sudden change of
expression, and resuming something of his habitual careless
tone. " Pooh ! your northern folks are cold-blooded ; you are
cool in everything ! You can't begin to curse up hill and down
as we can, when we get fairly at it."

" Well, but the question is." said Miss Ophelia.

" 0, yes, to be sure, the question is, — and a deuce of a ques-
tion it is ! How came you in this state of sin and misery 1

262 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Well, I shall answer in the good old words you used to teach
me, Sundays. I came so by ordinary generation. My ser-
vants were my father's, and, what is more, my mother's ; and
now they are mine, they and their increase, which bids fair to
be a pretty considerable item. My father, you know, came
first from New England ; and he was just such another man as
your father, — a regular old Koman, — upright, energetic, noble-
minded, with an iron will. Your father settled down in New
England, to rule over rocks and stones, and to force an exist-
ence out of Nature ; and mine settled in Louisiana, to rule
over men and women, and force existence out of them. My
mother," said St. Clare, getting up, and walking to a picture
at the end of the room, and gazing upward with a face fervent
with veneration, " she was divine ! l)on't look at me so ! — •
you know what I mean ! She probably was of mortal birth ;
but, as far as ever I could observe, there was no trace of any
human weakness or error ahout her ; and everybody that lives
to remember her, whether bond or free, servant, acquaintance,
relation, all say the same. Why, cousin, that mother has been
all that has stood between me and utter unbelief for years.
She was a direct embodiment and personification of the New
Testament, — a living fact, to be accounted for, and to be ac-
counted for in no other way than by its truth. 0, mother !
mother ! " said St. Clare, clasping his hands, in a sort of trans-
port ; and then suddenly checking himself, he came back, and
seating himself on an ottoman, he went on : —

" My brother and I were twins ; and they say, you know,
that twins ought to resemble each other ; but we were in all
points a contrast. He had black, fiery eyes, coal-black hair, a
strong, fine Roman profile, and a rich brown complexion. I
had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline, and fair complex-
ion. He was active and observing, I dreamy and inactive.
He was generous to his friends and equals, but proud, domi-
nant, overbearing, to inferiors, and utterly unmerciful to what-
ever set itself up against him. Truthful we both were, he
from pride and courage, I from a sort of abstract ideality. We
loved each other about as boys generally do, — off and on, and
in general ; he was my father's pet, and I my mother's.

" There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling
in me on all possible subjects, of which he and my father had
no kind of understanding, and with which they could have no
possible sympathy. But mother did ; and so, when I had

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 263

quarrelled with Alfred, and father looked sternly on me, I
used to go off to mother's room, and sit by her. I remember
just how she used to look, with her pale cheeks, her deep, soft,
serious eyes, her white dress, — she always wore white ; and I
used to think of her whenever I read in Eevelations about the
saints that were arrayed in tine linen, clean and white. She
had a great deal of genius of one sort and another, particularly
in music ; and she used to sit at her organ, playing tine old
majestic music of the Catholic church, and singing with a voice
more like an angel than a mortal woman ; and I would lay my
head down on her lap, and cry, and dream, and feel, — O im-
measurably ! — things that I had no language to say !

" In those days, this matter of slavery had never been can-
vassed as it has now ; nobody dreamed of any harm in it.

" My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in some pre-
existeut state, he must have been in the higher circles of spir-
its, and brought all his old court pride along with him ; for it
was ingrain, bred in the bone, though he was originally of poor
and not in any way of noble family. My brother was begotten
in his image.

" Now, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no hu-
man sympathies, beyond a certain line in society. In Eng-
land the line is in one place, in Burmah in another, and in
America in another; but the aristocrat of all these countries
never goes over it. What would be hardship and distress and
injustice in his own class, is a cool matter of course in another
one. My father's dividing line was that of color. Among his
equals, never was a man more just and generous ; but he con-
sidered the negro, through all possible gradations of color, as
an intermediate link between man and animals, and graded all
his ideas of justice or generosity on this hypothesis. I sup-
pose, to be sure, if anybody had asked him, plump and fair,
whether they had human immortal souls, he might have hemmed
and hawed, and said yes. But my father was not a man much
troubled with spiritualism ; religious sentiment he had none,
beyond a veneration for God, as decidedly the head of the
upper classes.

" Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes ; he
was an inflexible, driving, punctilious business man ; everything
was to move by system, -- to be sustained with unfailing ac-
curacy and precision. Now, if you take into account that all
this was to be worked out 'oy a set of lazy, twaddling, shift-

264 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

less laborers, who had grown up, all their lives, in the ahsence
of every possible motive to learn how to do anything but
' shirk,' as you Vermonters say, you '11 see that there might
naturally be, on his plantation, a great many things that looked
horrible and distressing to a sensitive child, like me.

" Besides all, he had an overseer, — a great, tall, slab-sided,
two-listed renegade son of Vermont (begging your pardon),
who had gone through a regular apprenticeship in hardness
and brutality, and taken his degree to be admitted to practice.
My mother could never endure him, nor I, but he obtained an
entire ascendency over my father ; and this man was the abso-
lute despot of the estate.

" I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love that I
have now for all kinds of human things, — a kind of passion
for the study of humanity, come in what shape it would. I
was found in the cabins and among the field-hands a great
deal, and, of course, was a great favorite ; and all sorts of com-
plaints and grievances were breathed in my ear ; and I told
them to mother, and we, between us, formed a sort of com-
mittee for a redress of grievances. We hindered and repressed
a great deal of cruelty, and congratulated ourselves on doing
a vast deal of good, till, as often happens, my zeal overacted.
Stubbs complained to my father that he could n't manage the
hands, and must resign his position. Father was a fond, in-
dulgent husband, but a man that never flinched from anything
that he thought necessary ; and so he put down his foot, like
a rock, between us and the field-hands. He told my mother,
in language perfectly respectful and deferential, but quite ex-
plicit, that over the house-servants she should be entire mis-
tress, but that with the field-hands he could allow no inter-
ference. He revered and respected her above all living beings ;
but he would have said it all the same to the Virgin Mary her-
self, if she had come in the way of his system.

" I used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases with
him, — endeavoring to excite his sympathies. He would listen
to the most pathetic appeals with the most discouraging polite-
ness and equanimity. ' It all resolves itself into this,' he would
say ; ' must I part with Stubbs, or keep him 1 Stubbs is the
soul of punctuality, honesty, and efficiency, — a thorough busi-
ness hand, and as humane as the general run. We can't have
perfection ; and if I keep him, I must sustain his administra-
tion as a whole, even if there are, now and then, things that are

SLAVES AT THEIR TOIL

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 265

exceptionable. All government includes some necessary hard-
ness. General rules will bear hard on particular cases.' This
last maxim my father seemed to consider a settler in most
alleged cases of cruelty. After he had said that, he commonly
drew up his feet on the sofa, like a man that has disposed of a
business, and betook himself to a nap, or the newspaper, as the
case might be.

" The fact is, my father showed the exact sort of talent for
a statesman. He could have divided Poland as easily as an
orange, or trod on Ireland as quietly and systematically as any
man living. At last my mother gave up, in despair. It never
will be known, till the last account, what noble and sensitive
natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly helpless, into what
seems to them an abyss of injustice and cruelty, and which
seems so to nobody about them. It has been an age of long
sorrow of such natures, in such a hell-begotten sort of world as
ours. What remained for her, but to train her children in her
own views and sentiments 1 Well, after all you say about
training, children will grow up substantially what they are by
nature, and only that. From the cradle, Alfred was an aristo-
crat ; and as he grew up, instinctively all his sympathies and
all his reasonings were in that line, and all mother's exhorta-
tions went to the winds. As to rne, they sunk deep into me.
She never contradicted, in form, anything that my father said,
or seemed directly to differ from him ; but she impressed,
burnt into my very soul, with all the force of her deep, earnest
nature, an idea of the dignity and worth of the meanest human
soul. I have looked in her face with solemn awe, when she
would point up to the stars in the evening, and say to me, ' See
there, Auguste, the poorest, meanest soul on our place will be
living, when all these stars are gone forever, — will live as long
as God lives ! '

" She had some fine old paintings ; one, in particular, of
Jesus healing a blind man. They were very fine, and used to
impress me strongly. ' See there, Auguste,' she would say ;
' the blind man was a beggar, poor and loathsome ; therefore,
he would not heal him afar off ! He called him to him, and
put his hands on him ! Remember this, my boy.' If I had
lived to grow up under her care, she might have stimulated me
to I know not what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint,
reformer, martyr, — but, alas! alas! I went from her when I
was only thirteen, and I never saw her again ! "

266 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speak foi
some minutes. After a while, he looked up, and went on : —

" What poor, mean trash this whole business of human virtue
is ! A mere matter, for the most part, of latitude and longitude,
and geographical position, acting with natural temperament
The greater part is nothing but an accident ! Your lather, foi
example, settles in Vermont, in a town where all are, in fact,
free and equal ; becomes a regular church-member and deacon,
and in due time joins an Abolition society, and thinks us all
little better than heathens. Yet he is, for all the world, in con-
stitution and habit, a duplicate of my father. I can see it
leaking out in fifty different ways, — just that same strong,
overbearing, dominant spirit. You know very well how im-
possible it is to persuade some of the folks in your village that
Squire Sinclair does not feel above them. The fact is, though
he has fallen on democratic times, and embraced a democratic,
theory, he is to the heart an aristocrat, as much as my father,
who ruled over five or six hundred slaves."

Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil at this picture, and
was laying down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare stopped
her.

" Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do not
say they ivere alike, in fact. One fell into a condition where
everything acted against the natural tendency, and the othei
where everything acted for it ; and so one turned out a pretty
wilful, stout, overbearing old democrat, and the other a wilful,
stout old despot. If both had owned plantations in Louisiana,
they would have been as like as two old bullets cast in th«
same mould."

" What an undutiful boy you are ! " said Miss Ophelia.

" I don't mean them any disrespect," said St. Clare. " You
know reverence is not my forte. But, to go back to my his-
tory : -

" When father died, he left the whole property to us twin
boys, to be divided as we should agree. There does not breathe
on God's earth a nobler-souled, more generous fellow, than
Alfred, in all that concerns his equals ; and we got on admirably
with this property question, without a single unbrotherly word
or feeling. We undertook to work the plantation together;
and Alfred, whose outward life and capabilities had double the
strength of mine, became an enthusiastic planter, and a wonder-
fully successful one.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 2G7

" But two years' trial satisfied me that I could not be a
partner in that matter. To have a great gang of seven hundred,
whom I could not know personally, or feel any individual in-
terest in, bought and driven, housed, fed, worked like so many
horned cattle, strained up to military precision, — the question
of how little of life's commonest enjoyments would keep them
in working order being a constantly recurring problem, — the
necessity of drivers and overseers, — the ever-necessary whip,
first, last, and only argument, — the whole thing was insufferably
disgusting and loathsome to me ; and when I thought of my
mother's estimate of one poor human soul, it became even
frightful !

" It 's all nonsense to talk to me about slaves enjoying all
this ! To this day, I have no patience with the unutterable
trash that some of your patronizing Northerners have made up,
as in their zeal to apologize for our sins. We all know better.
Tell me that any man living wants to work all his days, from
day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye of a master, without
the power of putting forth one irresponsible volition, on the
same dreary, monotonous, unchanging toil, and all for two pairs
of pantaloons and a pair of shoes a year, with enough food and
shelter to keep him in working order ! Any man who thinks
that human beings can, as a general thing, be made about as
comfortable that way as any other, I wish he might try it. I 'd
buy the dog, and work him, with a clear conscience ! "

" I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, " that you, all
of you, approved of these things, and thought them right,—
according to scripture."

" Humbug ! We are not quite reduced to that yet. AlfreO
who is as determined a despot as ever walked, does not pretend
to this kind of defence ; — no, he stands, high and haughty, on
that good old respectable ground, the right of the strongest ; anJ
he says, and I think quite sensibly, that the American plantei
is 'only doing, in another form, what the English aristocracy
and capitalists are doing by the lower classes ' ; that is, I taki
it, appropriating them, body and bone, soul and spirit, to their
use and convenience. He defends both, — and I think, at
least, consistently. He says that there can be no high civiliza-
tion without enslavement of the masses, either nominal or real.
There must, he says, be a lower class, given up to physical toil
and confined to an animal nature ; and a higher one thereby
acquires leisure and wealth for a more expanded intelligence

2G8 UNULE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

and improvement, and becomes the directing soul of the lower.
3o he reasons, because, as I said, he is born an aristocrat ; — so
I don't believe, because I was born a democrat."

'• How in the world can the two things be compared ? " said
Miss Ophelia. " The English laborer is not sold, traded, parted
from his family, whipped."

" He is as much at the will of his employer as if he were
sold to him. The slave-owner can whip his refractory slave
to death, — the capitalist can starve him to death. As to
family security, it is hard to say which is the worst, — to have
one's children sold, or see them starve to death at home."

" But it 's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it
is n't worse than some other bad thing."

" I didn't give it for one, -- nay, I '11 say, besides, that ours
is the more bold and palpable infringement of human rights ;
actually buying a man up, like a horse, — looking at his teeth,
cracking his joints, and trying his paces, and then paying down
for him, — having speculators, breeders, traders, and brokers
in human bodies and souls, — sets the thing before the eyes of
the civilized world in a more tangible form, though the thing
done be, after all, in its nature, the same ; that is, appropriating
one set of human beings to the use and improvement of another,
without any regard to their own."

" I never thought of the matter in this light," said Miss
Ophelia.

" Well, I 've travelled in England some, and T 've looked
over a good many documents as to the state of their lower
classes ; and I really think there is no denying Alfred, when
he says that his slaves are better off than a large class of the
population of England. You see, you must not infer, from
what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a hard
master ; for he is n't. He is despotic, and unmerciful to insub-
ordination ; he would shoot a fellow down with as little re-
morse as he would shoot a buck, if he opposed him. But, in
general, he takes a sort of pride in having his slaves comforta-
bly fed and accommodated.

" When I was with him, I insisted that he should do some-
thing for their instruction ; and, to please me, he did get a
chaplain, and used to have them catechized Sunday, though, 1
Relieve, in his heart, that he thought it would do about as
much good to set a chaplain over his dogs and horses. And the
fact is, that a mind stupefied and animalized by every bad in-.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 269

flueuce from the hour of hirth, spending the whole of every
week-day in unreflecting toil, cannot be done much with by a
few hours on Sunday. The teachers of Sunday-schools among
the manufacturing population of England, and among planta-
tion-hands in our country, could perhaps testify to the same
result, there and here. Yet some striking exceptions there are
among us, from the fact that the negro is naturally more im-
pressible to religious sentiment than the white."

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, " how came you to give up your
plantation life 1 "

" Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw
plainly that I was no planter. He thought it absurd, after
he had reformed, and altered, and improved everywhere, to
suit my notions, that I still remained unsatisfied. The fact was,
it was, after all, the THING that I hated, — the using these
men and women, the perpetuation of all this ignorance, bru-
tality, and vice, — just to make money for me !

" Besides, I was always interfering in the details. Being
myself one of the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too
much fellow-feeling for the lazy ; and when poor, shiftless
dogs put stones at the bottom of their cotton-baskets to make
them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with dirt, with cot-
ton at the top, it seemed so exactly like what I should do if I
were they, I could n't and would n't have them flogged for it.
Well, of course, there was an end of plantation discipline ; and
Alf and I came to about the same point that I and my
respected father did, years before. So he told me that I was
a womanish sentimentalist, and would never do for business
life ; and advised me to take the bank-stock and the New
Orleans family mansion, and go to writing poetry, and let him
manage the plantation. So we parted, and I came here."

" But why did n't you free your slaves ] "

" Well, I was n't up to that. To hold them as tools for
money-making, I could not ; — have them to help spend money,
you know, did n't look quite so ugly to me. Some of them
were old house-servants, to whom I was much attached ; and
the younger ones were children to the old. All were well sat-
isfied to be as they were." He paused, and walked reflectively
up and down the room.

" There was," said St. Clare, " a time in my life when I had
plans and hopes of doing something in this world, more than
to float and drift. I had vague, indistinct yearnings to be a

270 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

sort of emancipator, — to free my native land from this spot
and stain. All young men have had such fever-fits, I suppose,
some time, - - but then -

" Why did n't you 1 " said Miss Ophelia ; — " you ought
not to put your hand to the plough, and look back."

" O, well, things did n't go with me as I expected, and I got
the despair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was a
necessary incident to wisdom in us both ; but. some how or
other, instead of being actor and regenerator in society, I be-
came a piece of drift-wood, and have been floating and eddying
about, ever since. Alfred scolds me, every time we meet ; and
he has the better of me, I grant, — for he really does some-
thing ; his life is a logical result of his opinions, and mine is a
contemptible non sequitur."

" My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of
spending your probation 1 "

" Satisfied ! Was I not just telling you I despised it ] But,
then, to come back to this point, — we were on this liberation
business. I don't think my feelings about slavery are peculiar.
I find many men who, in their hearts, think of it just as I do.
The land groans under it ; and, bad as it is for the slave, it is
worse, if anything, for the master. It takes no spectacles to
see that a great class of vicious, improvident, degraded people,
imong us, are an evil to us, as well as to themselves. The
capitalist and aristocrat of England cannot feel that as we do,
because they do not mingle with the class they degrade as we
do. They are in our houses ; they are the associates of our
children, and they form their minds faster than we can ; for
they are a race that children always will cling to and assimi-
late with. If Eva, now, was not more angel than ordinary,
she would be ruined. We might as well allow the small-pox
to run among them, and think our children would not take it,
as to let them be uninstructed and vicious, and think our chil-
dren will not be affected by that. Yet our laws positively
and utterly forbid any efficient general educational system, and
they do it wisely, too ; for, just begin and thoroughly educate
one generation, and the whole thing would be blown sky high.
If we did not give them liberty, they would take it."

" And what do you think will be the end of this 1 " said
Miss Ophelia.

" I don't know. One thing is certain, — that there is a
mustering among the masses, the world over ; and there is a>

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 271

dies irce coming on, sooner or later. The same thing is work-
ing in Europe, in England, and in this country. My mother
used to tell me of a millennium that was coming, when Christ
should reign, and all men should be free and happy. And she
taught me, when I was a boy, to pray, ' Thy kingdom come.'
Sometimes I think all this sighing, and groaning, and stirring
among the dry bones foretells what she used to tell me was
coming. But who may abide the day of his appearing 1 "

" Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the
kingdom," s.iid Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, and
looking anxiously at her cousin.

" Thank you for your good opinion ; but it 's up and down
with me, — up to heaven's gate in theory, down in earth's dust
in practice. But there 's the tea-bell, — do let 's go, — and
don't say, now, I have n't had one downright betious talk, for
once in my life."

At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. " I suppose
you '11 think, cousin," she said, " that we are all barbarians."

" I think that 's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, " but
I don't think you are all barbarians."

"Well, now," said Marie, "I know it's impossible to get
along with some of these creatures. They are so bad they
ought not to live. I don't feel a particle of sympathy for such
cases. If they 'd only behave themselves, it would not happen."

" But, mamma," said Eva, " the poor creature was unhappy ;
that 's what made her drink."

" 0, fiddlestick ! as if that were any excuse ! I 'm unhappy,
very often. I presume," she said, pensively, ''that I've had
greater trials than ever she had. It's just because they are so
bad. There 's some of them that you cannot break in by any
kind of severity. I remember father had a man that was so
lazy he would run away just to get rid of work, and lie round
in the swamps, stealing and doing all sorts of horrid things.
That man was caught and whipped, time and again, and it
never did him any good ; and the last time he crawled off,
though he could n't but just go, and died in the swamp. There
was no sort of reason for it, for father's hands were always
treated kindly."

" I broke a fellow in, once," said St. Clare, " that all the over-
seers and masters had tried their hands on in vain."

" You ! " said Marie ; " well, I 'd be glad to know when you
ever did anything of the sort."

272

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow, — a native-born
African ; and he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom
in him to an uncommon degree. He was a regular African lion.
They called him Scipio. Nobody could do anything with him ;
and he was sold round from overseer to overseer, till at last
Alfred bought him, because he thought he could manage him.
Well, one day he knocked down the overseer, and was fairly off

into the swamps. I was on a visit to Alf's plantation, for it
was after Ave had dissolved partnership. Alfred was greatly
exasperated ; but I told him that it was his own fault, and laid
him any wager that I could break the man ; and finally it waf
agreed that, if I caught him, I should have him to experiment
on. So they mustered out a party of some six or seven, with
guns and dogs, for the hunt. People, you know, can get up
just as much enthusiasm in hunting a man as a deer, if it is
only customary ; in fact, 1 got a little excited myself, though I
had only put in as a sort of mediator, in case he was caught.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

273

" Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and scam-
pered, and finally we started him. He ran and bounded like a
buck, and kept us well in the rear for some time ; but at last
he got caught in an impenetrable thicket of cane; then he
turned to bay, and I tell you he fought the dogs right gallantly.
He dashed them to right and left, and actually killed three ot
them with only his naked h'sts, when a shot from a gun brought
him down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, almost at my
feet. The poor fellow looked up at me with manhood and
despair both in his eye. I kept back the dogs and the party,
as they came pressing up, and claimed him as my prisoner. It
was all I could do to keep them from shooting him, in the flush

of success ; but I persisted in my bargain, and Alfred'sold him
to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in one fortnight I had
him tamed down as submissive and tractable as heart could
desire."

" What in the world did you do to him 1 " said Marie.

" Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my own

274 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

room, had a good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and
tended him myself, until he got fairly on his feet again. And,
in process of time, I had free papers made out for him, and told
him he might go where he liked."

" And did he go ] " said Miss Ophelia.

" No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and abso-
lutely refused to leave me. I never had a braver, better fellow,
— trusty and true as steel. He embraced Christianity after-
wards, and became as gentle as a child. He used to oversee
my place on the lake, and did it capitally, too. I lost him the
first cholera season. In fact, he laid down his life for me. For
I was sick, almost to death ; and when, through the panic, every-
body else fled, Scipio worked for me like a giant, and actually
brought me back into life again. But, poor fellow ! he was
taken, right after, and there was no saving him. I never felt
anybody's loss more."

Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as
he told the story, -- her small lips apart, her eyes wide and
earnest with absorbing interest.

As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck,
burst into tears, and sobbed convulsively.

" Eva, dear child ! what is the matter ? " said St. Clare, as
the child's small frame trembled and shook with the violence
of her feelings. " This child," he added, " ought not to hear
any of this kind of thing, — she 's nervous."

" No, papa, I 'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself,
suddenly, with a strength of resolution singular in such a child.
" I 'm not nervous, but these things sink into my heart."

" What do you mean, Eva '<,"

" I can't tell you, papa. I think a great many thoughts.
Perhaps some day I shall tell you."

" Well, think away, dear, — only don't cry and worry your
papa," said St. Clare. "Look here, — see what a beautiful
peach I have got for you ! "

Eva took it, and smiled, though there was still a nervou?
twitching about the corners of her mouth.

" Come, look at the gold-fish," said St. Clare, taking her
hand and stepping on to the veranda. A few moments, and
merry laughs were heard through the silken curtains, as Eva
and St. Clare were pelting each other with roses, and chasing
each other among the alleys of the court.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 275

There is danger that our humble friend Tom be neglected
amid the adventures of the higher born ; but, if our readers
will accompany us up to a little loft over the stable, they may,
perhaps, learn a little of his affairs. It was a decent room,
containing a bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, where
lay Tom's Bible and hymn-book ; and where he sits, at
present, with his slate before him, intent on something that
seems to cost him a great deal of anxious thought.

The fact was, that Tom's home-yearnings had become so
strong, that he had begged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva, and,
mustering up all his small stock of literary attainment acquired
by Mas'r George's instructions, he conceived the bold idea of
writing a letter ; and he was busy now, on his slate, getting
out his first draft. Tom was in a good deal of trouble, for the
forms of some of the letters he had forgotten entirely ; and of
what he did remember, he did not know exactly which to use.
And while he was working, and breathing very hard, in his
earnestness, Eva alighted, like a bird, on the round of his
chair behind him, and peeped over his shoulder.

" 0, Uncle Tom ! what funny things you are making there ! "

" I 'm trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva,
and my little chil'en," said Tom, drawing the back of his hand
over his eyes ; " but, some how, I 'm 'feard I shan't make it
out."

" I wish I could help you, Tom ! I 've learnt to write some.
Last year I could make all the letters, but I 'm afraid I 've
forgotten."

So Eva put her little golden head close to his, and the two
commenced a grave and anxious discussion, each one equally
earnest, and about equally ignorant ; and, with a deal of con-
sulting and advising over every word, the composition began,
as they both felt very sanguine, to look quite like writing.

" Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful," said
Eva, gazing delightedly on it. " How pleased your wife '11 be,v
and the poor little children ! 0, it 's a shame you ever had to
go away from them ! I mean to ask papa to let you go back,
some time."

" Missis said that she would send down money for me, as
soon as they could get it together," said Tom. " I 'm 'spectin'
she will. Young Mas'r George, he said he 'd come for me ;
and he gave me this yer dollar as a sign " ; and Tom drew from
under his clothes the precious dollar.

276

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" O, he '11 certainly come, then ! " said Eva. " I 'm so
glad ! "

'' And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let 'em know
whar I was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off, — 'cause
she felt so drefful, poor soul ! "

" I say, Tom ! " said St. Clare's voice, coming in the door at
this moment.

Tom and Eva both sta,rted.

" What 's here ? " said St. Clare, coming up and looking at
the slate.

" 0, it 's Tom's letter. I 'm helping him to write it," said
Eva ; " is n't it nice ? "

" I would n't discourage either of you," said St. Clare, " but
I rather think, Tom, you 'd better get me to write your letter
for you. I '11 do it, when I come home from my ride."

" It's very important he should write," said Eva, "becaust
his mistress is going to send down money to redeem him, you
know, papa ; he told me they told him so."

St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably only
one of those things which good-natured owners say to their

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 277

servants, to alleviate their horror of being sold, without any
intention of fulfilling the expectation thus excited. But he
did not make any audible comment upon it, — only ordered
Tom to get the horses out for a ride.

Tom's letter was written in due form for him that evening,
and safely lodged in the post-office.

Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labors in the house-
keeping line. It was universally agreed, among all the house-
hold, from Dinah down to the youngest urchin, that Miss
Ophelia was decidedly " curis," - - a term by which a southern
servant implies that his or her betters don't exactly suit them.

The higher circle in the family — to wit, Adolph, Jane, and
Eosa — agreed that she was no lady ; ladies never kept work-
ing about as she did ; — that she had no air at all ; and they
were surprised that she should be any relation of the St.
Clares. Even Marie declared that it was absolutely fatiguing
to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in fact, Miss
Ophelia's industry was so incessant as to lay some foundation
for the complaint. She sewed and stitched away, from day-
light till dark, with the energy of one who is pressed on by
some immediate urgency ; and then, when the light faded, and
the work was folded away, with one turn out came the ever-
ready 'knitting-work, and there she was again, going on as
briskly as ever. It really was a labor to see her.

278 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTEE XX.

TOPSY.

morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some
of her domestic cares, St. Clare's voice was heard,
calling her at the foot of the stairs.

" Come down here, cousin ; I 've something to
show you."

" What is it 1 " said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with her
sewing in her hand.

"I've made a purchase for your department, — see here,"
said St. Clare ; and, with the word, he pulled along a little
negro girl, about eight or nine years of age.

She was one of the blackest of her race ; and her round,
shining eyes, glittering as glass beads, moved with quick and
restless glances over everything in the room. Her mouth, half
open with astonishment at the wonders of the new Mas'r's
parlor, displayed a white and brilliant set of teeth. Her
woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, which stuck out
in every direction. The expression of her face was an odd
mixture of shrewdness and cunning, over which was oddly
drawn, like a kind of veil, an expression of the most doleful
gravity and solemnity. She wfts dressed in a single filthy,
ragged garment, made of bagging ; and stood with her hands
demurely folded before her. Altogether, there was something
odd and goblin-like about her appearance, — something, as
Miss Ophelia afterwards said, "so heathenish," as to inspire
that good lady with utter dismay ; and, turning to St. Clare,
she said, -

"Augustine, what in the world have you brought that thing
here for ?"

" For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way she
should go. I thought she was rather a funny specimen in the
Jim Crow line. Here, Topsy," he added, giving a whistle, as a
man would to call the attention of a dog, " give us a song, now,
and show us some of your dancing."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

279

The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wicked droll-
ery, and the thing struck up, in a clear shrill voice, an odd
negro melody, to which she kept time with her hands and
feet, spinning round, clapping her hands, knocking her knees
together, in a wild, fantastic sort of time, and producing in her

throat all those odd guttural sounds which distinguish tho
native music of her race ; and finally, turning a somerset or
two, and giving a prolonged closing note, as odd and unearthly
as that of a steam-whistle, she came suddenly down on thu
carpet, and stood with her hands folded, and a most sanctimo-
nious expression of meekness and solemnity over her face, only
broken by the cunning glances which she shot askance from
the corners of her eyes.

280 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with amaze-
ment.

St. Clare, like a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared to en-
joy her astonishment ; and, addressing the child again, said, —

" Topsy, this is your new mistress. I 'in going to give you
up to her ; see, now, that you behave yourself."

" Yes, Mas'r," said Topsy, with sanctimonious gravity, her
wicked eyes twinkling as she spoke.

" You 're going to be good, Topsy, you understand," said
St. Clare.

" 0, yes, Mas'r," said Topsy, with another twinkle, her hands
still devoutly folded.

" Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for?" said Miss
Ophelia. " Your house is so full of these little plagues, now,
that a body can't set down their foot without treading on 'em.
I get up in the morning, and find one asleep behind the door,
and see one black head poking out from under the table, one
lying on the door-mat, — and they are mopping and mowing
and grinning between all the railings, and tumbling over the
kitchen floor ! What on earth did you want to bring this one
for ] "

" For you to educate, — did n't I tell you 1 You 're always
preaching about educating. I thought I would make you a
present of a fresh-caught specimen, and let you try your hand
on her, and bring her up in the way she should go."

" / don't want her, I am sure ; — I have more to do with
'em now than I want to."

" That 's you Christians, all over ! — you '11 get up a society,
and get some poor missionary to spend all his days among
just such heathen. But let me see one of you that would take
one into your house with you, and take the labor of their conver-
sion on yourselves ! No ; when it cornes to that, they are dirty
and disagreeable, and it's too much care, and so on."

" Augustine, you know I did n't think of it in that light,"
said Miss Ophelia, evidently softening. " Well, it might be a
real missionary work," said she, looking rather more favorably
on the child.

St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia's con-
scientiousness was ever on the alert. " But," she added, " I
really did n't see the need of buying this one ; — there are
enough now, in your house, to take all my time and skill."

"Well, then, cousin," said St. Clare, drawing her aside, "I

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 281

ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing speeches.
You are so good, after all, that there 's no sense in them. Why,
the fact is, this concern belonged to a couple of drunken crea-
tures that keep a low restaurant that I have to pass by every
<lay, and I was tired of hearing her screaming, and them beat
ing and swearing at her. She looked bright and funny, too,
is if something might be made of her, — so I bought her, and
( '11 give her to you. Try, now, and give her a good orthodox
New England bringing up, and see what it '11 make of hei%.
You know I have n't any gift that way ; but I 'd like you to
try."

" Well, I '11 do what I can," said Miss Ophelia ; and she
approached her new subject very much as a person might be
•supposed to approach a black spider, supposing them to have
benevolent designs toward it.

" She 's dreadfully dirty, and half naked," she said.

" Well, take her down stairs, and make some of them clean
and clothe her up."

Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions.

" Don't see what Mas'r St. Clare wants of 'nother nigger ! "
said Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no friendly air.
" Won't have her round under my feet, / know ! "

" Pah ! " said Rosa and Jane, with supreme disgust ; " let her
keep out of our way ! What in the world Mas'r wanted another
of these low niggers for, I can't see ! "

" You go 'long ! No more nigger dan you be, Miss Rosa,"
said Dinah, who felt this last remark a reflection on herself.
" You seem to tink yourself white folks. You an't nerry one,
black nor white. I 'd like to be one or turrer."

Miss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp that
would undertake to oversee the cleansing and dressing of the
new arrival ; and so she was forced to do it herself, with some
very ungracious and reluctant assistance from Jane.

It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of the first
toilet of a neglected, abused child. In fact, in this world, mul-
titudes must live and die in a state that it would be too great
a shock to the nerves of their fellow-mortals even to hear de-
scribed. Miss Ophelia had a good, strong, practical deal of
resolution ; and she went through all the disgusting details
with heroic thoroughness, though, it must be confessed, with no
very gracious air, — for endurance was the utmost to which
her principles could bring her. When she saw, on the back

282 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; CR,

and shoulders of the child, great welts and calloused spots,
ineffaceable marks of the system under which she had grown
up thus far, her heart became pitiful within her.

" See there ! " said Jane, pointing to the marks, " don't that
show she 's a limb 1 We '11 have tine works with her, I reckon.
I hate these nigger young uns ! so disgusting ! I wonder that
Mas'r would buy her ! "

The " young un " alluded to heard all these comments with
the subdued and doleful air which seemed habitual to her, only
scanning, with a keen and furtive glance of her nickering eyes,
the ornaments which Jane wore in her ears. When arrayed at
last in a suit of decent and whole clothing, her hair cropped
short to her head, Miss Ophelia, with some satisfaction, said she
looked more Christian-like than she did, and in her own mind
began to mature some plans for her instruction.

Sitting down before her, she began to question her.

" How old are you, Topsy ? "

" Dunno, Missis," said the image, with a grin that showed
all her teeth.

" Don't know how old you are 1 Did n't anybody ever tell
you 1 Who was your mother ] "

" Never had none ! " said the child, with another grin.

" Never had any mother 1 What do you mean 1 Where
were you born?"

" Never was born ! " persisted Topsy, with another grin, that
looked so goblin-like, that, if Miss Ophelia had been at all ner-
vous, she might have fancied that she had got hold of some
sooty gnome from the land of Diablerie ; but Miss Ophelia was
not nervous, but plain and business-like, and she said, with some
sternness, —

" You must n't answer me in that way, child ; I 'ni not play-
ing with you. Tell me where you were born, and who your
father and mother were."

" Never was born," reiterated the creature, more emphat-
ically ; " never had no father nor mother, nor nothin'. I was
raised by a speculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used
\Q take car on us."

The child was evidently sincere ; and Jane, breaking into a
short laugh, said, -

" Laws, Missis, there 's heaps of 'em. Speculators buys 'em
np cheap, when they 's little, and gets 'em raised for market."

" How long have you lived with your master and mistress ? ''

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 283

"Dunno, Missis."

" Is it a year, or more, or less 1 "

" Dunno, Missis."

"Laws, Missis, those low negroes, --they can't tell; they
don't know anything about time," said Jane ; " they don't know
what a year is ; they don't know their own ages."

" Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy 1 "

The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual.

" Do you know who made you 1 "

" Nobody, as I knows on," said the child, with a short laugh.

The idea appeared to amuse her considerably ; for her eyes
twinkled, and she added, -

"I spect I grow'd. Don't think nobody never made me."

" Do you know how to sew ] " said Miss Ophelia, who thought
she would turn her inquiries to something more tangible.

" No, Missis."

" What can you do 1 — what did you do for your master and
mistress 1 "

" Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and wait on
folks."

" Were they good to you ? "

" Spect they was," said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia
cunningly.

Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy ; St. Clare
was leaning over the back of her chair.

" You find virgin soil there, cousin ; put in your own ideas,
— you won't find many to pull up."

Miss Ophelia's ideas of education, like all her other ideas,
were very set and definite ; and of the kind that prevailed in
New England a century ago, and which are still preserved in
some very retired and unsophisticated parts, where there are no
railroads. As nearly as could be expressed, they could be com-
prised in very few words : to teach them to mind when they
were spoken to ; to teach them the catechism, sewing, and read-
ing ; and to whip them if they told lies. And though, of course,
in the flood of light that is now poured on education, these are
left far away in the rear, yet it is an undisputed fact that our
grandmothers raised some tolerably fair men and women under
this regime, as many of us can remember and testify. At all
events, Miss Ophelia knew of nothing else to do ; and, therefore,
applied her mind to her heathen with the best diligence she
could command.

284 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN-, OR,

The child was announced and considered in the family as
Miss Ophelia's girl ; and, as she was looked upon Avith no
gracious eye in the kitchen, Miss Ophelia resolved to confine
her sphere of operation and instruction chiefly to her own cham-
ber. With a self-sacrifice which some of our readers will
appreciate, she resolved, instead of comfortably making her own
bed, sweeping and dusting her own chamber, -- which she had
hitherto done, in utter scorn of all offers of help from the
chambermaid of the establishment, --to condemn herself to the
martyrdom of instructing Topsy to perform these operations, —
ah, woe the day ! Did any of our readers ever do the same,
they will appreciate the amount of her self-sacrifice.

Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her cham-
ber, the first morning, and solemnly commencing a course of
instruction in the art and mystery of bed-making.

Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all the little
braided tails wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed in a
clean gown, with well-starched apron, standing reverently be-
fore Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well befit-
ting a funeral.

" Now, Topsy, I 'm going to show you just how my bed is
to be made. I am very particular about rny bed. You must
learn exactly how to do it."

" Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face of
woful earnestness.

" Now, Topsy, look here ; — this is the hem of the sheet, —
this is the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong ; — will
you remember 1 "

" Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with another sigh.

" Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over the bolster,
— so, — and tuck it clear down under the mattress nice and
smooth, — so, - - do you see ? "

" Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, with profound attention.

" But the upper sheet," said Miss Ophelia, " must be brought
down in this way, and tucked under firm and smooth at the
foot, — so, — the narrow hem at the foot."

" Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before ; but we will add, what
Miss Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when the good
lady's back was turned, in the zeal of her manipulations, the
young disciple had contrived to snatch a pair of gloves and a
ribbon, which she had adroitly slipped into her sleeves, and
stood with her hands dutifully folded, as before.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 285

"Now, Topsy, let 's see you do this," said Miss Ophelia,
pulling off the clothes, and seating herself.

Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through the
exercise completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction ; smoothing
the sheets, patting out every wrinkle, and exhibiting, through
the whole process, a gravity and seriousness with which he?
instructress was greatly edilied. By an unlucky slip, however,
a fluttering fragment of the ribbon hung out of one of her
sleeves, just as she was finishing, and caught Miss Ophelia's
attention. Instantly she pounced upon it. " What 's this 1
You naughty, wicked child, — you 've been stealing this ! "

The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy's own sleeve, yet was
she not in the least disconcerted ; she only looked at it with an
air of the most surprised and unconscious innocence.

" Laws ! why, that ar 's Miss Feely's ribbon, an't it 1 How
could it a got caught in my sleeve ? "

" Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie, — you
stole that ribbon ! "

" Missis, I declar for 't, I did n't ; — never seed it till dis yer
blessed ruinnit."

" Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you know it's wicked
to tell lies ? "

"I never tells no lies, Miss Feely," said Topsy, with vir-
tuous gravity ; " it 's jist the truth I 've been a tellin' now, and
an't nothin' else."

"Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so."

" Laws, Missis, if you 's to whip all day, could n't say no
other way," said Topsy, beginning to blubber. " I never seed
dat ar, — it must a got caught in my sleeve. Miss Feely must
have left it on the bed, and it got caught in the clothes, and so
got in my sleeve."

Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that she
caught the child and shook her.

" Don't you tell me that again ! "

The shake brought the gloves on to the floor/ from the other
sleeve.

" There, you ! " said Miss Ophelia, " will you tell me now
you did n't steal the ribbon ? "

Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted in
denying the ribbon.

" Now, Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, " if you '11 confess all
about it, I won't whip you this time." Thus adjured, Topsy

286 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

confessed to the ribbon and gloves, with woful protestations of
penitence.

" Well now, tell me. I know you must have taken other
things since you have been in the house, for I let you run
about all day yesterday. Now, tell me if you took anything,
and I shan't whip you."

" Laws, Missis ! I took Miss Eva's red thing she wars on.
her neck."

" You did, you naughty child ! - - Well, what else 1 "

" I took Rosa's yer-rings, — them red ones."

" Go bring them to me this minute, both of 'em."

" Laws, Missis ! I can't, — they 's burnt up ! "

" Burnt up ! - - what a story ! Go get 'em, or I '11 whip
you."

Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, de-
clared that she could not. " They 's burnt up, — they was."

" What did you burn 'em up for 1 " said Miss Ophelia.

" 'Cause I 's wicked, — I is. I 's mighty wicked, any how.
I can't help it."

Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the room,
with the identical coral necklace on her neck.

"Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace ]" said Miss
Ophelia.

" Get it 1 Why, I 've had it on all day," said Eva.

" Did you have it on yesterday 1 "

" Yes ; and what is funny, Aunty, I had it on all night. 1
forgot to take it off when I went to bed."

Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered ; the more so, as
Rosa, at that instant, came into the room, with a basket of
newly ironed linen poised on her head, and the coral ear-drops
shaking in her ears !

" I 'm sure I can't tell anything what to do with such a
child ! " she said, in despair. " What in the world did you
tell me you took those things for, Topsy ? "

" Why, Missis said I must 'fess ; and I could n't think of
nothin' else to 'fess," said Topsy, nibbing her eyes.

" But, of course, I did n't want you to confess things you
did n't do," said Miss Ophelia ; " that 's telling a lie, just as
much as the other."

" Laws, now, is it ? '' said Topsy, with an air of innocent
wonder.

" La, there an't any such thing as truth in that limb," said

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 287

Rosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. " If I was Mas'r St.
Clare, I 'd whip her till the blood run. I would, -- I 'd let
her catch it ! "

" JSfo, no, Ixosa," said Eva, with an air of command, which
the child could assume at times ; " you must n't talk so, Kosa.
I can't bear to hear it."

" La sakes ! Miss Eva, you 's so good, you don't know noth-
ing how to get along with niggers. There 's no way but to cut
Jem well up, I tell ye."

" Eosa ! " said Eva, " hush ! Don't you say another word
of that sort ! " and the eye of the child Hashed, and her cheek
deepened its color.

Rosa was cowed in a moment.

" Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that 's plain.
She can speak, for all the world, just like her papa," she said,
as she passed out of the room.

Eva stood looking at Topsy.

There stood the two children, representatives of the two ex-
tremes of society. The fair, high-bred child, with her golden
head, her deep eyes, her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like
movements ; and her black, keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute
neighbor. They stood the representatives of their races. The
Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, command, education, physi-
cal and moral eminence ; the Afric, born of ages of oppression,
submission, ignorance, toil, and vice !

Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled through
Eva's mind. But a child's thoughts are rather dim, undefined
instincts ; and in Eva's noble nature many such were yearning
and working, for which she had no power of utterance. When
Miss Ophelia expatiated on Topsy's naughty, wicked conduct,
the child looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said, sweetly, -

"Poor Topsy, why need you steal1? You're going to be
taken good care of, now. I 'm sure I 'd rather give you any-
thing of mine, than have you steal it."

It was the first word of kindness the child had ever heard in
her life ; and the sweet tone and manner struck strangely on
the wild, rude heart, and a sparkle of something like a tear
shone in the keen, round, glittering eye ; but it was followed
by the short laiigh and habitual grin. No ! the ear that has
never heard anything but abuse is strangely incredulous of
anything so heavenly as kindness ; and Topsy only thought
Eva's speech something funny and inexplicable, — she did not
believe it.

288

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

But what was to be done with Topsy ? Miss Ophelia found
the case a puzzler ; her rules for bringing up did n't seem to
apply. She thought she would take time to think of it ; and,
by the way of gaining time, and in hopes of some indefinite
moral virtues supposed to be inherent in dark closets, Miss
Ophelia shut Topsy up in one till she had arranged her ideas
further on the subject.

" I don't see," said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, " how I 'm
going to manage that child, without whipping her."

" Well, whip her, then, to your heart's content ; I '11 give
you full power to do what you like."

"Children always have to be whipped," said Miss Ophelia
" I never heard of bringing them up without."

" 0, well, certainly," said St. Clare ; " do as you think best.
Only, I '11 make one suggestion : I 've seen this child whipped
with a poker, knocked down with the shovel or tongs, which-
ever came handiest ; and, seeing that she is used to that stylo
of operation, I think your whippings will have to be pretty
energetic, tc make much impression."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 289

" What is to be done with her, then 1 " said Miss Ophelia.

" You have started a serious question," said St. Clare ; " I wish
you 'd answer it. What is to be done with a human being
that can be governed only by the lash, — that fails, — it 's a
very common state of things down here ! "

" I 'm sure I don't know ; I never saw such a child as this."

" Such children are very common among us, and such men and
women, too. How are they to be governed 'I " said St. Clare.

" I 'm sure it 's more than I can say," said Miss Ophelia.

" Or I either," said St. Clare. " The horrid cruelties and
outrages that once in a while find their way into the papers,
— such cases as Prue's, for example, - - what do they come
from ? In many cases, it is a gradual hardening process on
both sides, — the owner growing more and more cruel, as the
servant more and more callous. Whipping and abuse are like
laudanum ; you have to double the dose as the sensibilities
decline. I saw this very early when I became an owner ; and
I resolved never to begin, because I did not know when I
should stop, — and I resolved, at least, to protect my own
moral nature. The consequence is, that my servants act like
spoiled children ; but I think that better than for us both to
be brutalized together. You have talked a great deal about
our responsibilities in educating, cousin. I really wanted you
to try with one child, who is a specimen of thousands among

us."

" It is your system makes such children," said Miss Ophelia.

" I know it ; but they are made, — they exist, — and what
is to be done with them '{ "

" Well, I can't say I thank you for the experiment. But,
then, as it appears to be a duty, I shall persevere and try, and
do the best I can," said Miss Ophelia ; and Miss Ophelia, after
this, did labor, with a commendable degree of zeal and energy,
on her new subject. She instituted regular hours and employ-
ments for her, arid undertook to teach her to read and to sew.

In the former art, the child was quick enough. She learned
her letters as if by magic, and was very soon able to read plain
reading ; but the sewing was a more difficult matter. The
creature was as lithe as a cat, and as active as a monkey, and
the confinement of sewing was her abomination ; so she broke,
her needles, threw them slyly out of windows, or down in
chinks -of the walls ; she tangled, broke, and dirtied her thread,
or, with a sly movement, would throw a spool away altogether.

290 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Her motions were almost as quick as those of a practised con-
jurer, and her command of her face quite as great ; and though
Miss Ophelia could not help feeling that so many accidents
could not possibly happen in succession, yet she could not,
without a watchfulness which would leave her no time for
anything else, detect her.

Topsy was soon a noted character in Ahe establishment. Her
talent for every species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry -
for dancing, tumbling, climbing, singing, whistling, imitating
every sound that hit her fancy — seemed inexhaustible. In
her play-hours, she invariably had every child in the establish-
ment at her heels, open-mouthed with admiration and wonder,
— not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be fascinated by
her wild diablerie, as a dove is sometimes charmed by a glitter-
ing serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasy that Eva should fancy
Topsy's society so much, and implored St. Clare to forbid it.

" Poh ! let the child alone," said St. Clare. " Topsy will
do her good."

" But so depraved a child, — are you not afraid she will
teach her some mischief?"

" She can't teach her mischief; she might teach it to some
children, but evil rolls off Eva's mind like dew off a cabbage-
leaf, — not a drop sinks in."

" Don't be too sure," said Miss Ophelia. " I know I 'd
never let a child of mine play with Topsy."

" Well, your children need n't," said St. Clare, " but mine
may ; if Eva could have been spoiled, it would have been done
years ago."

Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the upper ser-
vants. They soon found reason to alter their opinion. It was
very soon discovered that whoever cast an indignity on Topsy
was sure to meet with some inconvenient accident shortly
after ; — either a pair of ear-rings or some cherished trinket would
be missing, or an article of dress would be suddenly found
utterly ruined, or the person would stumble accidentally into a
pail of hot water, or a libation of dirty slop would unaccount-
ably deluge them from above when in full gala dress ; — and
on all these occasions, when investigation was made, there was
nobody found to stand sponsor for the indignity. Topsy was
cited, and had up before all the domestic judicatories, time and
again ; but always sustained her examinations with most edify-
ing innocence and gravity of appearance. Nobody in the worlu

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

ever doubted who did the things ; but not a scrap of any direct
evidence could be found to establish the suppositions, and Miss
Ophelia was too just to feel at liberty to proceed to any lengths
without it.

The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, as
further to shelter the aggressor. Thus, the times for revenge
on Rosa and Jane, the two chambermaids, were always chosen
in those seasons when (as not unfrequently happened) they
were in disgrace with their mistress, when any complaint from,
them would of course meet with no sympathy. In short,
Topsy soon made the household understand the propriety of
letting her alone ; and she was let alone accordingly.

Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations,
learning everything that was taught her with surprising quick-
ness. With a few lessons, she had learned to do the proprie-
ties of Miss Ophelia's chamber in a way with which even that
particular lady could find no fault. Mortal hands could not
lay spread smoother, adjust pillows more accurately, sweep and
dust and arrange more perfectly, than Topsy, when she chose, -
but she did n't very often choose. If Miss Ophelia, after three
or four days of careful and patient supervision, was so sanguine
as to suppose that Topsy had at last fallen into her way, could
do without overlooking, and so go off and busy herself about
something else, Topsy would hold a perfect carnival of confu-
sion, for some one or two hours. Instead of making the bed,
she would amuse herself with pulling on" the pilloAv-cases, but-
tin"' her woolly head among the pillows, till it would sometimes
be grotesquely ornamented with feathers sticking out in various
directions ; she would climb the posts, and hang head down-
ward from the tops ; flourish the sheets and spreads all over
the apartment ; dress the bolster up in Miss Ophelia's night-
clothes, and enact various scenic performances with that, -
singing and whistling, and making grimaces at herself in the
looking-glass ; in short, as Miss Ophelia phrased it, " raising
Cain " generally.

On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her very
best scarlet India Canton crape shawl wound round her head
for a turban, going on with her rehearsals before the glass in
great style, - - Miss Ophelia having, with carelessness most
unheard of in her, left the key for once in her drawer.

" Topsy ! " she would say, when at the end of all patience,
" what does make you act so 1 "

292

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" Dunno, Missis, — I
spects 'cause 1 's so wick-
ed !"

" I don't know any-
thing what I shall do
with you, Topsy."

" Law, Missis, you
must whip me ; my old
Missis allers whipped
me. I an't used to
workin' unless I gets
whipped."

" Why, Topsy, I don't
want to whip you. You
can do well, if you 've a
mind to ; what is the
reason you won't 1 "

" Laws, Missis, I 's
used to whippin' ; I
spects it 's good for me."

Miss Ophelia tried the
recipe, and Topsy inva-
riably made a terrible
commotion, screaming,
groaning, and imploring,
though half an hour af-
terwards, when roosted
on some projection of the
balcony, and surrounded
by a flock of admiring
" young uns," she would
express the utmost con-
tempt of the whole affair.

" Law, Miss Feeiy
whip ! -- would n't kill
a skeeter, her whippin's.
Oughter see how old
Mas'r made the flesh fly ;
old Mas'r know'd how ! "

Topsy always made
great capital of her own
sins and enormities, evi-
dently considering them as something peculiarly distinguishing.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 293

" Law, you niggers," she would say to some of her auditors,
" does you know you 's all sinners 1 Well, you is, — everybody
is. White folks is sinners too, - - Miss Feely says so ; but I
spects niggers is the biggest ones ; but lor ! ye an't any on ye
up to me. I 's so awful wicked there can't nobody do nothin'
with me. I used to keep old Missis a swarin' at me half de
time. 1 spects I 's the wickedest crittur in the world " ; and
Topsy would cut a summerset, and come up brisk and shining
on to a higher perch, and evidently plume herself on the die
tinction.

Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays, teach-
ing Topsy the catechism. Topsy had an uncommon verbal
memory, and committed with a liuency that greatly encouraged
her instructress.

" What good do you expect it is going to do her 1 " said St.
Clare.

" Why, it always has done children good. It 's what chil-
dren always have to learn, you know," said Miss Ophelia.

" Understand it or not," said St. Clare.

" 0, children never understand it at the time ; but, after
they are grown up, it'll come to them."

" Mine has n't come to me yet," said St. Clare, " though I '11
bear testimony that you put it into me pretty thoroughly when
I was a boy."

" Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. I used
to have great hopes of you," said Miss Ophelia.

" Well, have n't you now 1 " said St. Clare.

" I wish you were as good as you were when you were a boy,
Augustine."

" So do I, that 's a fact, cousin," said St. Clare. " Well, go
ahead and catechize Topsy ; may be you '11 make out something
yet."

Topsv, who had stood like a black statue during this discus-
sion, with hands decently folded, now, at a signal from Miss
Ophelia, went on, -

" Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their own
will, fell from the state wherein they were created."

Topsy's eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly.

" What is it, Topsy ? " said Miss Ophelia.

" Please, Missis, was clat ar state Kintuck 1 "

" What state, Topsy 1 "

" Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear Mas'r tell how
we came down from Kintuck."

294 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

St. Clare laughed.

" You '11 have to give her a meaning, or she '11 make one,"
said he. " There seems to be a theory of emigration suggested
there."

" 0, Augustine, be still," said Miss Ophelia ; " how can I
do anything, if you will be laughing 1 "

" Well, I won't disturb the exercises again, on my honor " ;
and St. Clare took his paper into the parlor, and sat down, till
Topsy had finished her recitations. They were all very well,
only that now and then she would oddly transpose some im-
portant words, and persist in the mistake, in spite of every effort
to the contrary ; and St. Clare, after all his promises of good-
ness, took a wicked pleasure in these mistakes, calling Topsy to
him whenever he ha,d a mind to amuse himself, and getting her
to repeat the offending passages, in spite of Miss Ophelia's re-
monstrances.

" How do you think I can do anything with the child, if you
will go on so, Augustine 1 " she would say.

" Well, it is too bad, - - I won't again ; but I do like to hear
the droll little image stumble over those big words ! "

" But you confirm her in the wrong way."

" What 's the odds 1 One word is as good as another to her."

" You wanted me to bring her up right ; and you ought to
remember she is a reasonable creature, and be careful of your
influence over her."

" O, dismal ! so I ought ; but, as Topsy herself says, « I 's so

wicked ! ' "

In very much this way Topsy's training proceeded, for a year
or two, — Miss Ophelia worrying herself, from day to day, with
her, as a kind of chronic plague, to whose inflictions she became,
in time, as accustomed as persons sometimes do to the neuralgia
or sick-headache.

St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the child that
a man might in the tricks of a parrot or a pointer. Topsy,
whenever her sins brought her into disgrace in other quarters,,
always took refuge behind his chair; and St. Clare, in one way;
or other, would make peace for her. From him she got many'
a stray picayune, which she laid out in nuts and candies, and
distributed, with careless generosity, to all the children in the
family ; for Topsy, to do her justice, was good-natured and lib-
eral, and only spiteful in self-defence. She is fairly introduced
into our corps <le. ballet, and will figure, from time to time, in
her turn, with other performers.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

295

CHAPTER XXI.

KENTUCK.

readers may not be unwilling to glance back,
for a brief interval, at Uncle Tom's Cabin, on the
Kentucky farm, and see what has been transpir-
ing among those whom he had left behind.
_ _ __ It was late in the summer afternoon, and the
doors and windows of the large parlor all stood open, to invite
any stray breeze, that might feel in a good humor, to enter.
Mr. Shelby sat in a large hall opening into the room, and run-
ning through the whole length of the house, to a balcony on
either end. Leisurely tipped back in one chair, with his heels
in another, he was enjoying his after-dinner cigar. Mrs. Shelby
eat in the door, busy about some fine sewing ; she seemed like
one who had something on her mind, which she was seeking an
opportunity to introduce.

" Do you know," she said, " that Chloe has had a letter from
Torn]"

" Ah ! has she ? Tom 's got some friend there, it seems.
How is the old boy 1 "

" He has been bought by a very fine family, I should think,"
said Mrs. Shelby, — " is kindly treated, and has not much to do."

" Ah ! well, I 'm glad of it, — very glad." said Mr. Shelby,
heartily. " Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a southern
residence ; — hardly want to come up here again."

" On the contrary, he inquires very anxiously," said Mrs.
Shelby, "when the money for his redemption is to be raised."

" I 'in sure / don't know," said Mr. Shelby. " Once get
business running wrong, there does seem to be no end to it.
It 's like jumping from one bog to another, all through a swamp ;
borrow of one to pay another, and then borrow of another to
pay one, — and these confounded notes falling due before a
man has time to smoke a cigar and turn round, —dunning
letters and dunning messages, — all scamper and hurry-scurry."

296 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" It does seem to me, my dear, that something might be done
to straighten matters. Suppose we sell off all the horses, and
sell one of your farms, and pay up square ] "

" 0, ridiculous, Emily ! You are the finest woman in Ken-
tucky ; but still you have n't sense to know that you don't
understand business ; — women never do, and never can."

" But, at least," said Mrs. Shelby, "could not you give me
some little insight into yours ; a list of all your debts, at least,
and of all that is owed to you, and let me try and see if I can't
help you to economize."

" O, bother! don't plague me, Emily!--! can't tell ex-
actly. I know somewhere about what things are likely to be •>
but there 's no trimming and squaring my ali'airs, as Chloe trims
crust off her pies. You don't know anything about business,
I tell you."

And Mr. Shelby, not knowing any other way of enforcing his
ideas, raised his voice, — a mode of arguing very convenient
and convincing, when a gentleman is discussing matters of
business with his wife.

Mrs. Shelby ceased talking, with something of a sigh. The*
fact was, that though her husband had stated she was a woman,
she had a clear, energetic, practical mind, and a force of char-
acter every way superior to that of her husband ; so that it
would not have been so very absurd a supposition, to have
allowed her capable of managing, as Mr. Shelby supposed.
Her heart was set on performing her promise to Tom and Aunl
Chloe, and she sighed as discouragements thickened around her.

" Don't you think we might in some way contrive to raise
that money 1 Poor Aunt Chloe ! her heart is so set on it ! "

" I 'm sorry, if it is. I think I was premature in promising.
I'm not sure, now, but it 's the best way to tell Chloe, and let
her make up her mind to it. Tom '11 have another wife, in a
year or two ; and she had better take up with somebody else."

" Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their marriages
are as sacred as ours. I never could think of giving Chloe such
advice."

" It 's a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a mo-
rality above their condition and prospects. I always thought so."
" It's only the morality of the Bible, Mr. Shelby."
" Well, well, Emily, I don't pretend to interfere with youi
religious notions ; only they seem extremely unfitted for people
in that condition."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 297

" They are, indeed," said Mrs. Shelby, " and that is why,
from my soul, I hate the whole thing. I tell you, my dear, 1
cannot absolve myself from the promises I make to these help-
less creatures. If 1 can get the money no other way, I will
take music-scholars ; — I could get enough, I know, and earn
the money myself."

" You would n't degrade yourself that way, Emily 1 I never
could consent to it."

" Degrade ! would it degrade me as much as to break my
faith with the helpless 1 No, indeed ! "

" Well, you are always heroic and transcendental," said Mr.
Shelby, " but I think you had better think before you under-
take such a piece of Quixotism."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of
Aunt Chloe, at the end of the veranda.

" If you please, Missis,'1 said she.

" Well, Chloe, what is it 1 " said her mistress, rising, and
going to the end of the balcony.

" If Missis would come and look at dis yer lot o' poetry."

Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry, —
an application of language in which she always persisted, not-
withstanding frequent corrections and advisings from the young
members of the family.

" La sakes ! " she would say, " I can't see ; one jis good as
turry, — poetry suthin good, any how "; and so poetry Chloe
continued to call it.

Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickens and
ducks, over which Chloe stood, with a very grave face of con-
sideration.

" I 'm a thinkin' whether Missis would be a havin' a chicken-
pie o' dese yer."

" Eeally, Aunt Chloe, I don't much care ; — serve them any
way you like."

Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly ; it was quite
evident that the chickens were not what she was thinking of.
At last, with the short laugh with which her tribe often intro-
duce a doubtful proposal, she said, -

" Laws me, Missis ! what should Mas'r and Missis be a
fcroublin' theirselves 'bout de money, and not a usin' what 's
tight in der hands 1 " and Chloe laughed again.

" I don't understand you, Chloe," said Mrs. Shelby, noth-
ing doubting, from her knowledge of Chloe's manner, that she

2fJ8 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

had heard every word of the conversation that had passed be-
tween her and her husband.

" Why, laws me, Missis ! " said Chloe, laughing again, " other
folks hires out der niggers and makes money on 'em. Don't
keep sich a tribe eatin' 'em out of house and home."

" Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire
outl"

" Laws ! I an't a proposin' nothin' ; only Sam he said der was
one of dese yer perfectioners, dey calls 'em, in Louisville, said he
wanted a good hand at cake and pastry ; and said he 'd give
four dollars a week to one, he did."

" Well, Chloe."

" Well, laws, I 's a thinkin', Missis, it 's time Sally was put
along to be doin' something. Sally 's been under my care,
now, dis some time, and she does most as well as me, consider-
in' ; and if Missis would only let me go, I would help fetch up
de money. I an't afraid to put my cake, nor pies nother,
'long side no perfectioner's."

" Confectioner's, Chloe."

" Law sakes, Missis ! 't an't no odds ; — words is so curis,
can't never get 'em right ! "

" But, Chloe, do you want to leave your children ? "

" Laws, Missis ! de boys is big enough to do day's works,
dey does well enough ; and Sally, she '11 take de baby, — she 's
such a peart young \iu, she won't take no lookin' arter."

" Louisville is a good way off."

" Law sakes ! who 's afeard 1 — it 's down river, somer neai
my old man, perhaps]" said Chloe, speaking the last in the
tone of a question, and looking at Mrs. Shelby.

" No, Chloe, it 's many a hundred miles off," said Mrs.
Shelby.

Chloe's countenance fell.

" Never mind ; your going there shall bring you nearer,
1 Chloe. Yes, you may go ; and your wages shall every cent of
them be laid aside for your husband's redemption."

As when a bright sunbeam turns a dark cloud to silver, so
Chloe'.s dark face brightened immediately, — it really shone.

" Laws ! if Missis is n't too good ! I was thinking of dat
ar very thing ; 'cause I should n't need no clothes, nor shoes,
nor nothin', - - I could save every cent. How many weeks i?
der in a year, Missis 1 "

" Fifty-two," said Mrs. Shelby.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 299

" Laws ! now, dere is 1 and four dollars for each on 'em.
Why, how much M dat ar be ? "

" Two hundred and eight dollars," said Mrs. Shelby.

" Why-e ! " said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and de-
light ; " and how long would it take me to work it out, Missis 1 "

" Some four or five years, Cbloe ; but, then, you need n't do
it all, - - 1 shall add something to it."

" I would n't hear to Missis' givin' lessons nor nothiri'.
Mas'r 's quite right in dat ar ;- -'t would n't do, no ways. I
hope none our family ever be brought to dat ar, while 1 's got
hands."

" Don't fear, Chloe ; I '11 take care of the honor of the
family," said Mrs. Shelby, smiling. " But when do you ex-
pect to go 1 "

" Well, I warn't 'spectin' notbin' ; only Sam, he 's a gwine to
de river with some colts, and he said I could go 'long with
him ; so I jes put my things together. If Missis was willin'.
I 'd go with Sam to-morrow morning, if Missis would write my
pass, and write me a commendation."

" Well, Chloe, I '11 attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no objeo
tions. I must speak to him."

Mrs. Shelby went up stairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted,
went out to her cabin, to make her preparation.

" Law sakes, Mas'r George ! ye did n't know I 's a gwine to
Louisville to-morrow ! " she said to George, as, entering her
cabin, he found her busy in sorting over her baby's clothes.
" I thought I 'd jis look over sis's things, and get 'em straight-
ened up. But I 'm gwine, Mas'r George, — gwine to have
four dollars a week ; and Missis is gwine to lay it all up, to
buy back my old man agin ! "

" Whew ! " said George, " here 's a stroke of business, to be
sure ! How are you going] "

" To-morrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas'r George, I knows
you '11 jis sit down and write to my old man, and tell him all
about it, - - won't ye 1 "

" To be sure," said George ; " Uncle Tom '11 be right glad to
hear from us. I '11 go right in the house, for paper and ink ;
and then, you know, Aunt Chloe, I can tell about the new
colts and all."

" Sartin, sartin, Mas'r George ; you go 'long, and I '11 get ye
\ip a bit o' chicken, or some sich ; ye won't have many more
suppers wid yer poor old aunty."

300 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XXII.

"THE GRASS WITHERETH — THE FLOWER FAPETH."

' IFE passes, with us all, a day at a time ; so it
passed with our friend Tom, till two years were
; gone. Though parted from all his soul held dear,
and though often yearning for what lay beyond,
still was he never positively and consciously mis-
erable ; for, so well is the harp of human feeling strung, that
nothing but a crash that breaks every string can wholly mar
its harmony ; and, on looking back to seasons which in review
appear to us as those of deprivation and trial, we can remember
that each hour, as it glided, brought its diversions and allevi-
ations, so that, though not happy wholly, we were not, either,
wholly miserable.

Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had
" learned in whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content."
It seemed to him good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded
well with the settled and thoughtful habit which he had ac-
quired from the reading of that same book.

His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was
in due time answered by Master George, in a good, round,
school-boy hand, that Tom said might he read " most acrost
the room." It contained various refreshing items of home
intelligence, with which our reader is fully acquainted ; stated
how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner in Louis-
ville, where her skill in the pastry line was gaining wonderful
sums of money, all of which, Tom was informed, was to be
laid up to go to make up the sum of his redemption money ;
Mose and Pete were> thriving, and the baby was trotting all
about the house, under the care of Sally and the family gen-
erally.

Tom's cabin was shut up for the present ; but George expa-
tiated brilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it
when Tom came back.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 301

The rest of this letter gave a list of George's school studies,
each one headed by a flourishing capital ; and also told the
names of four new colts that appeared on the premises since
Tom left ; and stated, in the same connection, that father and
mother were well. The style of the letter was decidedly
concise and terse ; but Tom thought it the most wonderful
specimen of composition that had appeared in modern times.
He was never tired of looking at it, and even held a council
with Eva on the expediency of getting it framed, to hang up
in his room. Nothing but the difficulty of arranging it so that
both sides of the page would show at once stood in the way of
this undertaking.

The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the
child's growth. It would be hard to say what place she held
in the soft, impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved
her as something frail and earthly, yet almost worshipped
her as something heavenly and divine. He gazed on her
as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the child Jesus, —
with a mixture of reverence and tenderness ; and to humor
her graceful fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants
which invest childhood like a many-colored rainbow, was
Tom's chief delight. In the market, at morning, his eyes
were always on the flower-stalls for rare bouquets for her,
and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into his pocket
to give to her when he came back ; and the sight that pleased
him most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his
distant approach, and her childish question, — " Well, Uncle
Tom, what have you got for me to-day 1 "

Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though
a child, she was a beautiful reader ; — a fine musical ear, a
quick poetic fancy, and an instinctive sympathy with what is
grand and noble, made her such a reader of the Bible as Tom
had never before heard. At first, she read to please her humble
friend ; but soon her own earnest nature threw out its tendrils,
and wound itself around the majestic book ; and Eva loved it,
because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim
emotions, such as impassioned, imaginative children love to
feel.

The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and
the Prophecies, -- parts whose dim and wondrous imagery,
and fervent language, impressed her the moi'e, that she ques-
tioned vainly of their meaning ; — and she and her simple

302 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

friend, the old child and the young one, felt just alike about
it. All that they knew was, that they spoke of a glory to be
revealed, — a wondrous something yet to come, wherein their
soul rejoiced, yet knew not why ; and though it be not so in
the physical, yet in moral science that which cannot be under-
stood is not always profitless. For the soul awakes, a trem-
bling stranger, between two dim eternities, — the eternal past,
the eternal future. The light shines only on a small space
around her ; therefore, she needs must yearn towards the un-
known ; and the voices and shadowy movings which come to
her from out the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one
echoes and answers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic
imageries are so many talismans and gems inscribed with un-
known hieroglyphics ; she folds them in her bosom, and ex-
pects to read them when she passes beyond the veil.

At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment
is, for the time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchar-
train. The heats of summer had driven all who were able to
leave the sultry and unhealthy city, to seek the shores of the
lake, and its cool sea-breezes.

St. Clare's villa was an East- Indian cottage, surrounded by
light verandas of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into
gardens and pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room
opened on to a large garden, fragrant with every picturesque
plant and flower of the tropics, where winding paths ran
down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery sheet of
water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams, — a picture
never for an hour the same, yet every hour more beautiful.

It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which
kindles the whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes
the water another sky. The lake lay in rosy or golden streaks,
save where white-winged vessels glided hither and thither,
like so many spirits, and little golden stars twinkled through
the glow, and looked down at themselves as they trembled in
the water.

Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an
arbor, at the foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and
Eva's Bible lay open on her knee. She read, — " And I saw
a sea of glass, mingled with fire."

" Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the
lake, " there 't is."
"What, Miss Eva?"

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 303

" Don't you see, — there 1 " said the child, pointing to the
glassy water, which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden
glow of the sky. " There 's a ' sea of glass, mingled with
tire.' "

" True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom ; and Tom sang : -

" 0, had I the wings of the morning,

I 'd fly away to Canaan's shore;
Bright angels should convey me home,
To the new Jerusalem."

" Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, ~Ua.de Tom 1 "
said Eva.

" 0, up in the clouds, Miss Eva."

"Then I think I see it," said Eva. "Look in those
clouds ! — they look like great gates of pearl ; and you can see
beyond them, — far, far off, — it 's all gold. Tom, sing about
• spirits bright.' '

Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn, —

" I see a band of spirits bright,

That taste the glories there;
They all are robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear."

" Uncle Tom, I 've seen them," said Eva.

Tom had no doubt of it at all ; it did not surprise him in
the least. If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he
would have thought it entirely probable.

" They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits " ;
and Eva's eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low
Voice, —

" They are all robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear."

" Uncle Tom," said Eva, " I 'm going there.'5

" Where, Miss Eva ? "

The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky ; the
glow of evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a
kind of unearthly radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly
on the skies.

" I 'm going there" she said, "to the spirits bright, Tom ;

I 'm going before long."

The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust ; and Tom thought
how often he had noticed, within six months, that Eva's little
hands had grown thinner, and her skin more transparent, and
tier breath shorter ; and how, when she ran or played in the

3U4

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

5
o

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 305

garden, as she once could for hours, she became soon so tired
and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak often of a
cough, that all her medicaments could not cure ; and even now
that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with hectio
fever ; and yet the thought that Eva's words suggested had
never come to him till now.

Has there ever been a child like Eva1? Yes, there have
been ; but their names are always on gravestones, and their
sweet smiles, their heavenly eyes, their singular words and
ways, are among the buried treasures of yearning hearts. In
how many families do you hear the legend that all the good-
ness and graces of the living are nothing to the peculiar charms
of one who is not ! It is as if heaven had an especial band
of angels, whose office it was to sojourn for a season here,
and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might
bear it upward with them, in their homeward flight. When
you see that deep, spiritual light in the eye, — when the little
soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than the ordi-
nary words of children, — hope not to retain that child ; for
the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks
out from its eyes.

Even so, beloved Eva ! fair star of thy dwelling ! Thou art
passing away ; but they that love thee dearest know it not.

The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a
hasty call from Miss Ophelia.

" Eva — Eva ! — why, child, the dew is falling ; you must n't
be out there ! "

Eva and Tom hastened in.

Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing.
She was from New England, and knew well the first guileful
footsteps of that soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so
many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life
seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death.

She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening
cheek ; nor could the lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy
born of fever, deceive her.

She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare ; but he
threw back her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his
usual careless good-humor.

"Don't be croaking, cousin,--! hate it!" he would say ;
" don't you see that the child is only growing ] Children al-
ways lose strength when they grow fast."

306 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" But she has that cough ! "

" 0, nonsense of that cough ! — it is not anything. She
has taken a little cold, perhaps."

" "Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and
Ellen and Maria Sanders."

" O, stop these hohgoblin nurse-legends. You old hands
get so wise, that a child cannot cough, or' sneeze, but you see
desperation and ruin at hand. Only take care of the child,
keep her from the night air, and don't let her play too hard,
and she '11 do well enough."

So St. Clare said ; but he grew nervous and restless. He
watched Eva feverishly day by day, as might be told by the
frequency with which he repeated over that " the child was
quite well," — that there was n't anything in that cough, — it
was only some little stomach affection, such as children often
had. But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener
to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt
or strengthening mixture, — " not," he said, " that the child
needed it, but then it would not do her any harm."

If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to
his heart than anything else was the daily increasing maturity
of the child's mind and feelings. While still retaining all a
child's fanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously,
words of such a reach of thought, and strange unworldly wis-
dom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such times,
St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms,
as if that fond clasp could save her ; and his heart rose up
with wild determination to keep her, never to let her go.

The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works
of love and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always
been ; but there was a touching and womanly thoughtfulness
about her now, that every one noticed. She still loved to
play with Topsy, and the various colored children ; but she
now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of their plays, and
she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the odd
tricks of Topsy, — and then a shadow would seem to pass
across her face, her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were
afar.

" Mamma," she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day,
" why don't we teach our servants to read 1 "

" What a question, child ! People never do."

" Why don't they 1 " said Eva.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 307

" Because it is no use for them to read. It don't help them
to work any better, and they are not made for anything else."

" But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God's
will."

" 0, they can get that read to them all they need."

" It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read
themselves. They need it a great many times when there is
nobody to read it."

" Eva, you are an odd child," said her mother.

" Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read," continued Eva.

"Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the
worst creature I ever saw ! "

" Here 's poor Mammy ! " said Eva. " She does love the
Bible so much, and wishes so she could read ! And what will
she do when I can't read to her 1 "

Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as
she answered, -

" Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other
things to think of, besides reading the Bible round to servants.
Not but that is very proper ; I 've done it myself, when I had
health. But when you come to be dressing and going into
company, you won't have time. See here !" she added, " these
jewels I 'm going to give you when you come out. I wore
them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensa-
tion."

Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond neck-
lace. Her large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was
plain her thoughts were elsewhere.

" How sober you look, child ! " said Marie.

" Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma ] "

" To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them.
They are worth a small fortune."

" I wish I had them," said Eva, " to do what I pleased
(rith ! "

" What would you do with them 1 "

" I 'd sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take
all our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read
and write."

Eva was cut short by her mother's laughing.

" Set up a boarding-school ! Would n't you teach them to
play on the piano, and paint on velvet 1 "

" I 'd teach them to read their own Bible, and write their

308 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

own letters, and read letters that are written to them," said
Eva, steadily. "I know, mamma, it does come very hard on
them, that they can't do these things. Tom feels it, — Mammy
does, — a great many of them do. I think it 's wrong."

" Come, come, Eva ; you are only a child ! You don't know
anything about these things," said Marie ; " besides, your talking
makes my head ache."

Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation
that did not exactly suit her.

Eva stole away ; but after that, she assiduously gave Mamrrry
reading lessons.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 309

CHAPTER XXIII.

HENRIQUE.

rBOUT this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred, with
his eldest son, a boy of twelve, spent a day or two
with the family at the lake.

No sight could be more singular and beautiful
than that of these twin brothers. Nature, instead
of instituting resemblances between them, had made them
opposites on every point ; yet a mysterious tie seemed to unite
them in a closer friendship than ordinary.

They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys
and walks of the garden, — Augustine, with his blue eyes and
golden hair, his ethereally flexible form and vivacious features ;
and Alfred, dark -eyed, with haughty Roman profile, firmly
knit limbs, and decided bearing. They were always abusing
each other's opinions and practices, and yet never a whit the less
absorbed in eacli other's society ; in fact, the very contrariety
seemed to unite them, like the attraction between opposite
poles of the magnet.

Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed,
princely boy, full of vivacity and spirit ; and, from the first
moment of introduction, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by
the spirituelle graces of his cousin Evangeline.

Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It was
easy as a cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress ; and this
pony was now brought up to the back veranda by Tom, while
a little mulatto boy of about thirteen led along a small black
Arabian, which had just been imported, at a great expense, for
Henrique.

Henrique had a boy's pride in his new possession ; and, as he
advanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little groom,
he looked carefully over him, and his brow darkened.

" What 's this, Dodo, you little lazy dog ! you have n't
rubbed my horse down, this morning."

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UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" Yes, Mas'r," said Dodo, submissively ; " he got that dust
on his own self."

" You rascal, shut your mouth ! " said Henrique, violently
raising his riding-whip. " How dare you speak 1 "

The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of just
Henrique's size, and his curling hair hung round a high, bold
forehead. He had white blood in his veins, as could be seen
by the quick flush in his cheek, and the sparkle of his eye, as
he eagerly tried to speak.

" Mas'r Henrique ! - 'he began.

Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip,
and, seizing one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and
beat him till he was out of breath.

" There, you impudent dog ! Now will you learn not to
answer back when I speak to you ] Take the horse back, and
clean him properly. I '11 teach you your place ! "

" Young Mas'r," said Tom, " I specs what he was gwine to
say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringing him
up from the stable ; he 's so full of spirits, — that 's the way he
got that dirt on him ; I looked to his cleaning."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 311

" You hold your tongue till you 're asked to speak ! " said
Henrique, turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to
speak to Eva, who stood in her riding-dress.

" Dear cousin, I 'm sorry this stupid fellow has kept you
waiting," he said. " Let 's sit down here, on this seat, till they
come. What 's the matter, cousin? — you look sober."

" How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo 1 "
said Eva.

" Cruel, — wicked ! " said the boy, with unaffected surprise.
" What do you mean, dear Eva1? "

" I don't want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so,"
said Eva.

" Dear cousin, you don't know Dodo ; it 's the only way to
manage him, he 's so full of lies and excuses. The only way is
to put him down at once, — not let him open his mouth ; that 's
the way papa manages."

" But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never tells
what is n't true."

" He 's an uncommon old nigger, then ! " said Henrique.
"Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak."

"You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so."

" Why, Eva, you 've really taken such a fancy to Dodo, that
I shall be jealous."

" But you beat him, — and he did n't deserve it."

" 0, well, it may go for some time when he does, and don't
get it. A few cuts never come amiss with Dodo, — he 's a
regular spirit, I can tell you; but I won't beat him again
before you, if it troubles you."

Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make
her handsome cousin understand her feelings.

Dodo soon appeared with the horses.

" Well, Dodo, you 've done pretty well, this time," said his
young master, with a more gracious air. " Come, now, and
hold Miss Eva's horse, while I put her on to the saddle."

Dodo came and stood by Eva's pony. His face was troubled ;
his eyes looked as if he had been crying.

Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroit-
ness in all matters of gallantry, soon had his fair cousin in the
saddle, and, gathering the reins, placed them in her hands.

But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo
was standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins, — •
" That 's a good boy, Dodo ; — thank you ! "

312

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face ;
the blood rushed to his cheeks, and the tears to his eyes.

" Here, Dodo," said his master, imperiously.

Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted.

" There 's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo,"
said Henrique; "go get some."

And Henrique cantered dov/n the walk after Eva. Dodo
stood looking after the two children. One had given him
money ; and one had given him what he wanted far more, —
a kind word, kindly spoken. Dodo had been only a few
months away from his mother. His master had bought him
at a slave warehouse, for his handsome face, to be a match to
the handsome pony ; and he was now getting his breaking in,
at the hands of his young master.

The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two
brothers St. Clare, from another part of the garden.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 313

Augustine's cheek flushed ; but he only observed, with his
usual sarcastic carelessness,—

" I suppose that 's what we may call republican education,
Alfred]"

" Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood 's up," said
Alfred, carelessly.

" I suppose you consider this an instructive practice fo>
him," said Augustine, dryly.

" I could n't help it, if I did n't. Henrique is a regular
little tempest ; — his mother and I have given him up, long
ago. But, then, that Dudo is a perfect sprite, — no amount
of whipping can hurt him."

" And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a
republican's catechism, ' All men are born free and equal ! ' "

" Poh ! " said Alfred ; " one of Tom Jefferson's pieces ot
.French sentiment and humbug. It 's perfectly ridiculous to
have that going the rounds among us, to this day."

" I think it is," said St. Clare, significantly.

" Because," said Alfred, " we can see plainly enough that
all men are not born free, nor born equal ; they are born any-
thing else. For my part, I think half this republican talk
sheer humbug. It is the educated, the intelligent, the wealthy,
the refined, who ought to have equal rights, and not the
canaille."

" If you can keep the canaille of that opinion," said
Augustine. "They took their turn once, in France."

" Of course, they must be kept down, consistently, steadily,
KS I should" said Alfred, setting his foot hard down, as if he
were standing on somebody.

" It makes a terrible slip when they get up," said Augus-
tine, — " in St. Domingo, for instance."

"Poh!" said Alfred, "we'll take care of that, in this
rountry. We must set our face against all this ' educating,
elevating talk, that is getting about now ; the lower class must
not be educated."

" That is past praying for," said Augustine ; " educated they
will be, and we have only to say how. Our system is edu-
cating them in barbarism and brutality. We are breaking all
humanizing ties, and making them brute beasts ; and, if they
7et the upper hand, such we shall find them."

" They never shall get the upper hand ! " said Alfred.

" That 's right," said St. Clare; "put on the steam, fasten

314 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

down the escape-valve, and sit on it, and see where you '11
land."

" Well," said Alfred, "we will see. I'm not afraid to sit on
the escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and the ma-
chinery works well."

" The nobles in Louis XVI.'s time thought just so ; and
Austria and Pins' IX. think so now ; and, some pleasant morn-
ing, you may all be caught up to meet each other in the air,,
when the boilers burst"

" Dies declarabit" said Alfred, laughing.

" 1 tell you," said Augustine, " if there is anything that is
revealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it is
that the masses are to rise, and the under class become the
upper one."

" That 's one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine !
Why did n't you ever take to the stump ; — you 'd make a
famous stump orator ! Well, I hope I shall be dead before this
millennium of your greasy masses comes on."

" Greasy or not greasy, they will govern you, when their
time comes," said Augustine; "and they will be just such
rulers as you make them. The French noblesse chose to have
the people ' sans culotte,' and they had ' sans culotte ' governors
to their hearts' content. The people of Hayti -

" 0, come, Augustine ! as if we had n't had enough of that
abominable, contemptible Hayti ! The Haytiens were not
Anglo-Saxons ; if they had been, there would have been
another story. The Anglo-Saxon is the dominant race of the
world, and is to be so."

" Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo-Saxon blood
among our slaves, now/' said Augustine. " There are plenty
among them who have only enough of the African to give a
sort of tropical warmth and fervor to our calculating firmness
and foresight. If ever the San Domingo hour comes, Anglo-
Saxon blood will lead on the day. Sons of white fathers, with
all our haughty feelings burning in their veins, will not always
be bought and sold and traded. They will rise, and raise with
them their mother's race."

"Stiiff!-- nonsense!"

" Well," said Augustine, " there goes an old saying to this
effect : ' As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be ; — they
ate, they drank, they planted, they builded, and knew not till
the flood came and took them.' "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 315

" On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do
for a circuit-rider," said Alfred, laughing. "Never you fear
for us ; possession is our nine points. We 've got the power.
This subject race," said he, stamping firmly, " is down, and
shall stay down ! We have energy enough to manage our own
powder."

" Sous trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians
of your powder-magazines," said Augustine, — "so cool and,
gelf-possessed ! The proverb says, ' They that cannot govern
themselves cannot govern others.' '

"There is a trouble there," said Alfred, thoughtfully.;
4 there 's no doubt that our system is a difficult one to train
children under. It gives too free scope to the passions, alto-
gether, which, in our climate, are hot enough. I find trouble
with Henrique. The boy is generous and warm-hearted, but
a perfect fire-cracker when excited. I believe I shall send him
north for his education, where obedience is more fashionable,
and where he will associate more with equals, and less with
dependants."

" Since training children is the staple work of the human
race," said Augustine, " I should think it something of a con-
sideration that our system does not work well there."

"It does not for some things," said Alfred; "for others,
again, it does. It makes boys manly and courageous ; and the
very vices of an abject race tend to strengthen in them the
opposite virtues. I think Henrique, now, has a keener sense
of the beauty of truth, from seeing lying and deception the uni-
versal badge of slavery."

"A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly ! " said Augus-
tine.

" It 's true, Christian-like or not ; and is about as Christian-
like as most other things in the world," said Alfred.

"That may be," said St. Clare.

" Well, there 's no use in talking, Augustine. I believe we 've
been round and round this old track five hundred times, more
or less. What do you say to a game of backgammon ? "

The two brothers ran up the veranda steps, and were soon
seated at a light bamboo stand, with the backgammon-board
between them. As they were setting their men, Alfred said, —

" I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I should do
something."

" 1 dare say you would, -- you are one of the doing sort, —
but what 'i "

316

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen," said Al-
fred, with a half-scornful smile.

" You might as well set Mount y£tna on them flat, and tell
them to stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants
under all the superincumbent mass of society upon them. One
man can do nothing, against the whole action of a community.
Education, to do anything, must be a state education ; or there
must be enough agreed in it to make a current."

" You take the first throw," said Alfred ; and the brothers
were soon lost in the game, and heard no more till the scraping
of horses' feet was heard under thu veranda.

" There come the children," said Augustine, rising. " Look
here, Alf ! Did you ever see anything so beautiful 1 " And,
in truth, it was a beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold
brow, and dark, glossy curls, and glowing cheek, was laughing
gayly, as he bent towards his fair cousin, as they came on. She
was dressed in a blue riding-dress, Avith a cap of the same color.
Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her cheeks, and height-
ened the effect of her singularly transparent skin, and
hair.

golden

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 317

" Good heavens ! what perfectly dazzling beauty ! " said Al-
fred. " I tell you, Auguste, won't she make some hearts ache,
one of these days 1 "

" She will, too truly, — God knows I 'm afraid so .' " said
St. Clare, in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to
take her off her horse.

" Eva, darling ! you 're not much tired ] " he said, as he
clasped her in his arms.

" No, papa," said the child ; but her short, hard breathing
alarmed her father.

" How could you ride so fast, dear ? — you know it 's bad for
you."

" I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot."

St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlor, and laid her
on the sofa.

" Henrique, you must be careful of Eva," said he ; " you
must n't ride fast with her."

" I '11 take her under my care," said Henrique, seating him-
self by the sofa, and taking Eva's hand.

Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncle
resumed their game, and the children were left together.

" Do you. know, Eva, I 'm so sorry papa is only going to stay
two days here, and then I shan't see you again for ever so long !
If I stay with you, I M try to be good, and not be cross to
Dodo, and so on. I don't mean to treat Dodo ill ; but, you
know, I Ve got such a quick temper. I 'm not really bad to
him, though. I give him a picayune, now and then ; and you
see he dresses well. I think, on the whole, Dodo 's pretty
well off."

" Would you think you were well off, if there were not one
creature in the world near you to love you?"

« I ? — Well, of course not."

"And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he
ever had, and now he has not a creature to love him ; — nobody
can be good that way."

" Well, I can't help it, as I know of. I can't get his mother,
and I can't love him myself, nor anybody else, as \ know of."

" Why can't you 1 " said Eva.

" Love Dodo ! Why, Eva, yon would n't have me ! I may
like him well enough ; but you don't love your servants."

" I do, indeed."

" How odd ! "

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UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

" Don't the Bible say we must love everybody 1 "

" 0, the Bible ! To be sure, it says a great many such
things ; but, then, nobody ever thinks of doing them, — you
know, Eva, nobody does."

Eva did not speak ; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful, for
a few moments.

"At any rate," she said, " dear cousin, do love poor Dodo,
and be kind to him, for my sake ! "

" I could love anything, for your sake, dear cousin ; for I
really think you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw ! "
And Henrique spoke with an earnestness that flushed his hand-
some face. Eva received it with perfect simplicity, without
even a change of feature ; merely saying, " I 'in glad you feel
so, dear Henrique ! I hope you will remember."

The dinner-bell put an end to the interview.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 319

CHAPTEE XXIV.

FORESHADOWINGS.

days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine
parted ; and Eva, who had been stimulated, by the
society of her young cousin, to exertions beyond
her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was
'1$. at last willing to call in medical advice, — a thing
from which he had always shrunk, because it was the admission
of an unwelcome truth.

But, for a day or two, Eva was so unwell as to be confined to
the house ; and the doctor was called.

Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually
decaying health and strength, because she was completely ab-
sorbed in studying out two or three new forms of disease to
which she believed she herself was a victim. It was the first
principle of Marie's belief that nobody ever was or could be so
great a sufferer as herself ; and, therefore, she always repelled
quite indignantly any suggestion that any one around her could
be sick. She was always sure, in such a case, that it was noth-
ing but laziness, or want of energy ; and that, if they had had
the suffering she had, they would soon know the difference.

Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternal
fears about Eva ; but to no avail.

" I don't see as anything ails the child," she would say ;
" she runs about, and plays."

" But she has a cough."

" Cough ! you don't need to tell me about a cough. I Ve
always been subject to a cough, all my days. When I was of
Eva's age, they thought I was in a consumption. Night after
night, Mammy used to sit up with me. 0, Eva's cough is not
anything."

" But she gets weak, and is short-breathed."

" Law ! I 've had that, years and years j it 's only a nervous
affection."

320 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" But she sweats so, nights ! "

" Well, I have, these ten years. Very often, night after
night, my clothes will be wringing wet. There won't be a dry
thread in my night-clothes, and the sheets will be so that
Mammy has to hang them up to dry ! Eva does n't sweat any-
thing like that ! "

Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But, now that
Eva was fairly and visibly prostrated, and a doctor called,
Marie, all on a sudden, took a new turn.

She knew it, she said ; she always felt it, that she was
destined to be the most miserable of mothers. Here she was,
witli her wretched health, and her only darling child going
down to the grave before her eyes ! And Marie routed up
Mammy nights, and rumpussed and scolded, with more energy
than ever, all day, on the strength of this new misery.

" My dear Marie, don't talk so ! " said St. Clare. " You
ought not to give up the case so, at once."

" You have not a mother's feelings, St. Clare. You never
could understand me ! — you don't now."

" But don't talk so, as if it were a gone case ! "

" I can't take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare. If
you don't feel when your only child is in this alarming state,
/ do. It 's a blow too much for me, with all I was bearing
before."

" It 's true," said St. Clare, " that Eva is very delicate, that
I always knew ; and that she has grown so rapidly as to ex-
haust her strength ; and that her situation is critical. But just
now she is only prostrated by the heat of the weather, and by
the excitement of her cousin's visit, and the exertions she
made. The physician says there is room for hope."

" Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray
do ; it 's a mercy if people have n't sensitive feelings, in this
world. I am sure I wish I did n't feel as I do ; it only makes
me completely wretched ! I wish I could be as easy as the
rest of you ! "

And the " rest of them " had good reason to breathe the
same prayer, for Marie paraded her new misery as the reason
and apology for all sorts of inflictions on every one about her.
Every word that was spoken by anybody, everything that was
done or was not done everywhere, was only a new proof that
She was surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings, who
were unmindful of her peculiar sorrows. Poor Eva heard

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 321

some of these speeches ; and nearly cried her little eyes out,
in pity for her mamma, and in sorrow that she should make
her so much distress.

In a week or two, there was a great improvement of symp-
toms, --one of those deceitful lulls, by which her inexorable
disease so often beguiles the anxious heart, even on the verge
of the grave. Eva's step was again in the garden, — in the
balconies ; she played and laughed again, — and her father, in
a transport, declared that they should soon have her as hearty
as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt no
encouragement from this illusive truce. There was one other
heart, too, that felt the same certainty, and that was the little
heart of Eva. What is it that sometimes speaks in the soul so
calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is short 1 Is it the secret
instinct of decaying nature, or the soul's impulsive throb, as
immortality draws on ] Be it what it may, it rested in the
heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty that Heaven
was near ; calm as the light of sunset, sweet as the bright still-
ness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only troubled
by sorrow for those who loved her so dearly.

For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life
was unfolding before her with every brightness that love and
wealth could give, had no regret for herself in dying.

In that book which she and her simple old friend had read
so much together, she had seen and taken to her young
heart the image of One who loved the little child ; and, as
she gazed and mused, he had ceased to be an image and a pic-
ture of the distant past, and come to be a living, all-surround-
ing reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with more
than mortal tenderness ; and it was to him, she said, she was
going, and to his home.

But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she
was to leave behind. Her father most, — for Eva, though she
never distinctly thought so, had an instinctive perception that
she was more in his heart than any other. She loved her
mother because she was so loving a creature, and all the selfish-
ness that she had seen in her only saddened and perplexed her ;
for she had a child's implicit trust that her mother could not
do wrong. There was something about her that Eva never
could make out ; and she always smoothed it over with think-
ing that, after all, it was mamma, and she loved her very dearly
indeed.

322 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she
jas as daylight and sunshine. Children do not usually gener-
alize ; but Eva was an uncommonly mature child, and the
things that she had witnessed of the evils of the system under
which they were living had fallen, one by one, into the depths
of her thoughtful, pondering heart. She had vague longings
to do something for them, — to bless and save not only them,
but all in their condition, — longings that contrasted sadly
with the feebleness of her little frame.

i( Uncle Tom," she said, one day, when she was reading to
her friend, "I can understand why Jesus wanted to die for us."

" Why, Miss Eva ? "

" Because I've felt so, too."

" What is it, Miss Eva?— I don't understand."

" I can't tell you ; but, when I saw those poor creatures on
the boat, you know, when you came up and I, — some had
lost their mothers, and some their husbands, and some moth-
ers cried for their little children, — and when I heard about
poor Prue, — O, was n't that dreadful ! — and a great many
other times, I 've felt that I would be glad to die, if my dying
could stop all this misery. I would die for them, Tom, if I
could," said the child, earnestly, laying her little thin hand
on his.

Tom looked at the child with awe ; and when she, hearing
her father's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times,
as he looked after her.

" It 's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said to
Mammy, whom he met a moment after. " She 's got the Lord's
mark in her forehead."

" Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands ; ve
nllers said so. She was n't never like a child that 's to live, —
there was allers something deep in her eyes. 1 've told Missis
60, many the time ; it 's a comin' true, — we all sees it, — dear,
little, blessed lamb ! "

Eva came tripping up the veranda steps to her lather,
was late in the afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed
A kind of glory behind her, as she came forward in her
white dress, with her golden hair and glowing cheeks her
eyes unnaturally bright with the slow fever that burned in

her veins.

St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had been
buying for her ; but her appearance, as she came on, impressed

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

323

him suddenly and painfully. There is a kind of beauty so in-
tense, yet so fragile, that we cannot bear to look at it. Her
father folded her suddenly in his arms, and almost forgot what
he was going to tell her.

" Eva, dear, you are better nowadays, — are you not ? "

" Papa," said Eva, with sudden firmness, " I 've had things
I wanted to say to you, a great while. I want to say them'
now, before I get weaker."

St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She laid)
her head on his bosom, and said, -

" It 's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The
time is coming that I am going to leave you. I am going, and
never to come back ! " and Eva sobbed.

" 0, now, my dear little Eva ! " said St. Clare, trembling as
iie spoke, but speaking cheerfully, " you 've got nervous and

324 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

low-spirited ; you must n't indulge such gloomy thoughts. See
here, I 've bought a statuette for you ! "

" No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, " don't de-
ceive yourself ! - - I am not any better, I know it perfectly well,
— and I am going, before long. I am not nervous, - - 1 am
not low-spirited. If it were not for you, papa, and my friends,
I should be perfectly happy. I want to go, — I long to
go!"

" Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so
sad ] You have had everything, to make you happy, that could
be given you."

" I had rather be in heaven ; though, only for my friends'
sake, I would be willing to live. There are a great many things
here that make me sad, that seem dreadful to me ; I had rather
be there ; but I don't want to leave you, — it almost breaks
my heart ! "

" What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva 1 "

" 0, tilings that are done, and done all the time. I feel sad
for our poor people ; they love me dearly, and they are all good
and kind to me. I wish, papa, they were all free."

" Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough off
now 1 "

" 0, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would
become of them "? There are very few men like you, papa.
Uncle Alfred is n't like you, and mamma is n't ; and then, think
of poor old Prue's owners ! What horrid things people do, and
can do ! " and Eva shuddered.

" My dear child, you are too sensitive. I 'm sorry I ever let
you hear such stories."

" 0, that 's what troubles me, papa. You want me to live
so happy, and never to have any pain, — never suffer anything,
- not even hear a sad story, when other poor creatures have
nothing but pain and sorrow, all their lives ; — it seems selfish.
I ought to know such things, I ought to feel about them !
Such things always sunk into my heart ; they went down
deep ; I 've thought and thought about them. Papa, is n't
there any way to have all slaves made free ? "

"That's a difficult question, dearest. There's no doubt
that this way is a very bad one ; a great many people think
so ; I do myself. I heartily wish that there were not a slave
in the land ; but, then, 1 don't know what is to be done
about it ! "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 325

" Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind,
and you always have a way of saying things that is so pleas-
ant, could n't you go all round and try to persuade people
to do right about this ? When I am dead, papa, then you
will think of me, and do it for my sake. I would do it, if I
could."

" When you are dead, Eva," said St. Clare, passionately.
" 0, child, don't talk to me so ! You are all I have on
earth."

" Poor old Prue's child was all that she had, — and yet she
had to hear it crying, and she could n't help it ! Papa, these
poor creatures love their children as much as you do me. 0, do
something for them ! There 's poor Mammy loves her children;
I 've seen her cry when she talked about them. And Tom loves
his children ; and it 's dreadful, papa, that such things are hap-
pening, all the time ! "

" There, there, darling," said St. Clare, soothingly ; " only
don't distress yourself, and don't talk of dying, and I will do
anything you wish."

" And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his free-
dom as soon as " - she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone,
— " I am gone ! "

" Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world, — anything you
could ask me to."

" Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheek against
his, " how I wish we could go together ! "

" Where, dearest 1 " said St. Clare.

" To our Saviour's home ; it 's so sweet and peaceful there,
- it is all so loving there ! " The child spoke unconsciously,
as of a place where she had often been. " Don't you want to
go, papa 1 " she said.

St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent.

" You will come to me," said the child, speaking in s voic*
of calm certainty which she often used unconsciously.

" I shall come after you. I shall not forget you."

The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them deeper
and deeper, as St. Clare sat silently holding the little frail form
to his bosom. He saw no more the deep eyes, but the voice
came over him as a spirit voice, and, as in a sort of judgment
vision, his whole past life rose in a moment before his eyes : his
mother's prayers and hymns ; his own early yearnings and aspir-
ings for good ; and, between them and this hour, years of wodcl

326

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

liness and scepticism, and what man calls respectable living.
We can think much, very much, in a moment. St. Clare saw
and felt many things, but spoke nothing ; and, as it grew
darker, he took his child to her bedroom ; and, when she was
prepared for rest, he sent away the attendants, and rocked her
in his arms, and sung to her till she was asleep.

HH "^^Symifcteiii

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

327

CHAPTER XXV.

THE LITTLE EVANGELIST.

T was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched
on a bamboo lounge in the veranda, solacing him-
self with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a sofa,
opposite the window opening on the veranda,
closely secluded, under an awning of transparent
gauze, from the outrages of the mosquitoes, and languidly hold-
ing in her hand an elegantly bound prayer-book. She was
holding it because it was Sunday, and she imagined she had
been reading it, — though, in fact, she had been only taking a
succession of short naps, with it open in her hand.

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a
small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out,
with Tom as driver, to attend it ; and Eva had accompanied
them.

" I say, Augustine," said Marie, after dozing awhile, " I
must send to the city after my old Dr. Posey ; I 'm sure I 've
got the complaint of the heart."

" Well ; why need you send for him ? This doctor that at-
tends Eva seems skilful."

" I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie ; " and
I think T may say mine is becoming so ! I 've been thinking
of it, these two or three nights past ; I have such distressing
pains, and such strange feelings."

" 0, Marie, you are blue ; I don't believe it 's heart com-
plaint."

" I dare say yon don't," said Marie ; "I was prepared to expect
that. You can be alarmed enough, if Eva coughs, or has the
least thing the matter with her ; but you never think of me."

" If it 's particularly agreeable to you to have heart disease,
why, I '11 try and maintain you have it," said St. Clare ; " I
didn't know it was."

" Well, I only hope you won't be sorry for this, when it's

328

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OP,,

too late ! " said Marie ; " but, believe it or not, my distress
about Eva, and the exertions I have made with that dear child,
have developed what I have long suspected."

What the exertions were which Marie referred to, it would
have been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this com-
mentary to himself, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted

Tvretch of a man as he was, till a carriage drove up before tha
veranda, and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

329

Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put
away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before
she spoke a word on any subject ; while Eva came, at St.
Clare's call, and was sitting on his knee, giving him an account
of the services they had heard.

They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia's
room, which, like the one in which they were sitting, opened
on to the veranda, and violent reproof addressed to somebody.

" What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing ?" asked St.
Clare. " That commotion is of her raising, I '11 be bound ! "

And, in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation,
came dragging the culprit along.

" Come out here, now ! " she said. " I will tell your master ! "

" What 's the case now 1 " asked Augustine.

" The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child, any

330 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

longer ! It 's past all bearing ; flesh and blood cannot endure
it ! Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hymn to study ;
and what does she do, but spy out where I put my key, and
has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet-trimming, and cut it
all to pieces, to make dolls' jackets ! I never saw anything like
it, in my life ! "

" 1 told you, cousin," said Marie, " that you 'd find out that
these creatures can't be brought up, without severity. If 1 had
my way, now," she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare, " I 'd
send that child out, and have her thoroughly whipped ; I 'd
have her whipped till she could n't stand ! "

" I don't doubt it," said St. Clare. " Tell me of the lovely
rule of woman ! I never saw above a dozen women that
would n't half kill a horse, or a servant, either, if they had
their own way with them ! — let alone a man."

" There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St.
Clare ! " said Marie. " Cousin is a woman of sense, and sho
sees it now, as plain as I do."

Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that be-
longs to the thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been
pretty actively roused by the artifice and wastefulness of the
child ; in fact, many of my lady readers must own that they
should have felt just so in her circumstances ; but Marie's words
went beyond her, and she felt less heat.

" I would n't have the child treated so, for the world," she
said ; " but, I am sure, Augustine, I don't know what to do.
I 've taught and taught ; I 've talked till I 'm tired ; I 've
whipped her ; I 've punished her in every way I can think of,
and still she's just what she was at first."

" Come here, Tops, you monkey ! " said St. Clare, calling the
child up to him.

Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking
with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery

" What makes you behave so 1 " said St. Clare, who could noi
help being amused with the child's expression.

" Spects it 's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely ; " Miss
Feely says so."

" Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for youf
She says she has done everything she can think of."

"Lor, yes, Mas'r ! old Missis used to say so, too. She
whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock
my head agin the door ; but it did n't do me no good ! I spects,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 331

if they 's to pull every spear o' har out o' my head, it would n't
do no good, neither, — I 's so wicked ! Laws ! I 's nothin'
but a nigger, no ways ! "

" Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia. " I
can't have that trouhle any longer."

" Well, I 'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare.

" What is it 1 "

" Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one
heathen child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself,
what 's the use of sending one or two poor missionaries off with
it among thousands of just such 1 I suppose this child is about
a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen are."

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva,
who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a
silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little glass
room at the corner of the veranda, which St. Clare used as a
sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Tops}7 disappeared into this
place.

" What 's Eva going about, now 1 " said St. Clare ; " I mean
to see."

And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that cov-
ered the glass door, and looked in. In a moment,' laying his
linger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to
come and look. There sat the two children on the floor, with
their side faces towards them. Topsy, with her usual air of
careless drollery and unconcern ; but, opposite to her, Eva,
her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes.

" What does make you so bad, Topsy] Why won't you try
and be good ? Don't you love anybody, Topsy 1 "

" Donno nothing 'bout love ; I loves candy and sich, that 's
all," said Topsy.

" But you love your father and mother?"

" Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva."

" 0, I know," said Eva, sadly ; " but had n't you any
brother, or sister, or aunt, or -

" ISTo, none on 'em, — never had nothing nor nobody."

" But, Topsy, if you 'd only try to be good, you might —

" Could n't never be nothin' but a nigger, if I was ever so
good," said Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white,
I 'd try then."

" But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Mis&
Ophelia would love you, if you were good."

332 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common
mode of expressing incredulity.
" Don't you think so ? " said Eva.

" No ; she can't bar me, 'cause I 'm a nigger ! — she 'd 's
soon have a toad touch her ! There can't nobody love niggers,
and niggers can't do nothin' ! 7 don't care," said Topsy, be-
ginning to whistle.

" O, Topsy, poor child, / love you ! " said Eva, with a sud-
den burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on
Topsy's shoulder ; " I love you, because you have n't had any
father, or mother, or friends ; — because you 've been a poor,
abused child ! I love you, and I want you to be good. I am
very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan't live a great while ;
and it really grieves me, to have you be so naughty. I wish
you would try to be good, for my sake ; — it 's only a little while
I shall be with you."

The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with
tears ; — large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one,
and fell on the little white hand. Yes, iu that moment, a ray
of real belief, a ray of heavenly love, had penetrated the dark-
ness of her heathen soul ! She laid her head down between
her knees, -and wept and sobbed, - - while the beautiful child,
bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel
stooping to reclaim a sinner.

" Poor Topsy ! " said Eva, " don't you know that Jesus lovea
all alike 1 He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves
you just as I do, — only more, because he is better. He will
help you to be good ; and you can go to heaven at last, and be
an angel forever, just as much as if you were white. Only
think of it, Topsy ! — you can be one of those spirits bright,
Uncle Tom sings about."

" 0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva ! " said the child, " I will
try, I will try ; I never did care nothin' about it before."

St. Clare, at this instant, dropped the curtain. " It puts
me in mind of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true
what she told me ; if we want to give sight to the blind, we
must be willing to do as Christ did, — call them to us, and
put our hands on them."

" I 've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss
Ophelia, " and it 's a fact, I never could bear to have that child
touch me ; but I did n't think she knew it."

" Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare ; " there '3

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 333

no keeping it from them. But I believe that all the trying in
the world to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you
can do them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude, while
that feeling of repugnance remains in the heart ; — it 's a queer
kind of a fact, -- but so it is."

" I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia ; " they
are disagreeable to me, — this child in particular, — how can
,1 help feeling so ? "

" Eva does, it seems."

" Well, she 's so loving ! After all, though, she 's no more
than Christ-like," said Miss Ophelia ; '' I wish I were like her.
She might teach me a lesson."

" It would n't be the first time a little child had been used
to instruct an old disciple, if it ivere so," said St. Clare.

334

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTEE XXVI.

DEATH.

" Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes."

VA'S bedroom was a spacious apartment, which,
like all the other rooms in the house, opened on to
the broad veranda. The room communicated, on
one side, with her father and mother's apartment ;
on the other, with that appropriated to Miss
Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own eye and taste, in
furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar keeping with
the character of her for whom it was intended. The windows
were hung with curtains of rose-colored and white muslin ; the
floor was spread with a matting which had been ordered in
Paris, to a pattern of his own device, having round it a border
of rosebuds and leaves, and a centre-piece with full-blown
roses. The bedstead, chairs, and lounges were of bamboo,
wrought in peculiarly graceful and fanciful patterns. Over the
head of the bed was an alabaster bracket, on which a beautiful
sculptured angel stood, with drooping wings, holding out a
crown of myrtle-leaves. From this depended, over the bed,
light curtains of rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, sup-
plying that protection from mosquitoes which is an indispen-
sable addition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate.
The graceful bamboo lounges were amply supplied with cush-
ions of rose-colored damask, while over them, depending from
the hands of sculptured figures, were gauze curtains similar to
those of the bed. A light, fanciful bamboo table stood in the
middle of the room, where a Parian vase, wrought in the shape
of a white lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled with flowers.
On this table lay Eva's books and little trinkets, with an ele-
gantly wrought alabaster writing-stand, which her father had
supplied to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 335

writing. There was a fireplace in the room, and on the mar-
ble mantle above stood a beautifully wrought statuette of Jesus
receiving little children, and on either side marble vases, for
which it was Tom's pride and delight to offer bouquets every
morning. Two or three exquisite paintings of children, in
various attitudes, embellished the wall. In short, the eye
could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood, of
beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never opened, in the
morning light, without falling on something which suggested
to the heart soothing and beautiful thoughts.

The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a little
while was fast passing away ; seldom and more seldom her
light footstep was heard in the veranda, and oftener and oftener
she was found reclined on a little lounge by the open window,
her large, deep eyes fixed on the rising and falling waters of
the lake.

It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so
reclining, — her Bible half open, her little transparent fingers
lying listlessly between the leaves, — suddenly she heard her
mother's voice, in sharp tones, in the veranda.

" What now, you baggage! — what new piece of mischief!
You 've been picking the flowers, hey 1 " and Eva heard the
sound of a smart slap.

"Law, Missis ! --they 's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice
say, which she knew belonged to Topsy.

" Miss Eva ! A pretty excuse ! — you suppose she wants
your flowers, you good-for-nothing nigger ! Get along off with
you ! "

In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, and in the
veranda.

" 0, don't, mother ! I should like the flowers ; do give them
to me ; I want them ! "

" Why, Eva, your room is full now."

" I can't have too many," said Eva. " Topsy, do bring them
here."

Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, now
came up and offered her flowers. She did it with a look of
hesitation and bashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich boldness
and brightness which was usual with her.

" It 's a beautiful bouquet ! " said Eva, looking at it.

It was rather a singular one, — a brilliant scarlet geranium,
and one single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It was

336

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

tied up with an evident eye to the contrast of color, and the
arrangement of every leaf had carefully been studied.

Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said, — " Topsy, you arrange
flowers very prettily. Here," she said, " is this vase I have n't
any flowers for. I wish you 'd arrange something every day
for it."

" Well, that 'a odd ! " said Marie. " What in the world do
you want that for 1 "

" Never mind, mamma; you'd as lief as not Topsy should
do it, — had you not 1 "

" Of course, anything you please, dear ! Topsy, you hear
your young mistress ; — see that you mind."

Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down ; and, as sho
turned away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek.

" You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do somo
thing for me," oaid Eva, to ner mother.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 337

"0, nonsense! it 's only because she likes to do mischief.
She knows she must n't pick flowers, — so she does it, that 's
all there is to it. But, if you fancy to have her pluck them,
so be it."

" Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to
be ; she 's trying to be a good girl."

" She '11 have to try a good while before she gets to be good,'
said Marie, with a careless laugh.

"Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy ! everything has
always been against her."

" Not since she 's been here, I 'm sure. If she has n't been
talked to, and preached to, and every earthly thing done that
anybody could do ; — and she 's just so ugly, and always will
be ; you can't make anything of the creature ! "

" But, mamma, it 's so different to be brought up as I 've
been, with so many friends, so many things to make me good
and happy ; and to be brought up as she 's been, all the time,
till she came here ! "

"Most likely," said Marie, yawning, -- "dear me, how hot
it is ! "

" Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become
an angel, as well as any of us, if she were a Christian 1 "

" Topsy ! what a ridiculous idea ! Nobody but you would
ever think of it. I suppose she could, though."

"But, mamma, is n't God her father, as much as ours1?
Isn't Jesus her Saviour1?"

" "Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody,"
said Marie. " Where is my smelling-bottle 1 "

" It 's such a pity, — oh ! such a pity ! " said Eva, looking
out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself.

" What 's a pity ? " said Marie.

" Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live
with angels, should go all down, down, down, and nobody help
them!--0. dear !"

" Well, we can't help it ; it 's no use worrying, Eva ! I
don't know what 's to be done ; we ought to be thankful for
our own advantages."

"I hardly can be," said Eva, "I'm so sorry to think of
poor folks that have n't any."

" That 's odd enough," said Marie ; — "I 'm sure my relig-
ion makes me thankful for my advantages."

" Mamma," said Eva, " I want to have some of my hair cut
off, — a good deal of it."

338 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" What for ] " said Marie.

" Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I
am able to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty to
come and cut it for me 1 "

Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the
other room.

The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and,
shaking down her long golden-brown curls, said, rather play-
fully, " Come, aunty, shear the sheep ! "

" What 's that 1 " said St. Clare, who just then entered with
some fruit he had been out to get for her.

" Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair ; —
there 's too much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I
want to giA'e some of it away."

Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors.

" Take care, — don't spoil the looks of it ! " said her father ;
" cut underneath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my
pride."

" 0, papa ! " said Eva, sadly.

" Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time ]
take you up to your uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Hen-
rique," said St. Clare, in a gay tone.

" I shall never go there, papa ; - - I am going to a better
country. 0, do believe me ! Don't you see, papa, that I get
weaker, every day 1 "

" Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing,
Eva 1 " said her father.

" Only because it is true, papa ; and, if you will believe it
now, perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do."

St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the long,
beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from 'the child's
head, were laid, one by one, in her lap. She raised them up,
looked earnestly at them, twined them around her thin fingers,
and looked, from time to time, anxiously at her father.

" It 's just what I 've been foreboding ! " said Marie ; " it 'a
just what has been preying on my health, from day to day,
bringing me downward to the grave, though nobody regards it.
I have seen this, long. St. Clare, you will see, after a while,
that I was right."

" Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt ! " saio
St. Clare, in a dry, bitter tone.

Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with hei
cambric handkerchief.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 339

Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other.
It was the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from
its earthly bonds ; it was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated
the difference between the two.

She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came, and
sat down by her.

" Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I
must go. There are some things I want to say and do, -- that
I ought to do ; and you are so unwilling to have me speak a
word on this subject. But it must come ; there 's no putting it
off. Do be willing I should speak now ! "

" My child, i am willing ! " said St. Clare, covering his eyes
with one hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the other.

" Then, I want to see all our people together. I have some
things I must say to them," said Eva.

" Weil," said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance.

Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole of
the servants were convened in the room.

Eva lay back on her pillows ; her hair hanging loosely about
her face, her crimson cheeks contrasting painf'ully with the
intense whiteness of her complexion and the thin contour of
her limbs and features, and her large, soul-like eyes fixed ear-
nestly on every one.

The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The
spiritual face, the long locks of hair cut off and lying by her,
her father's averted face, and Marie's sobs, struck at once upon
the feelings of a sensitive and impressible race ; and, as they
came in, they looked one on another, sighed, and shook their
heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a funeral.

Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at
every one. All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the
women hid their faces in their aprons.

" I sent for you all, my dear friends," said Eva, " because I
love you. I love you all ; and I have something to say to you,
which I want you always to remember. ... I am going to
leave you. In a few more weeks you will see me no more — '

Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, and
lamentations, Avhich broke from all present, and in which her
slender voice was lost entirely. She waited a moment, and
then, speaking in a tone that checked the sobs of all, she
said, -

" If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to

340 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

what I say. I want to speak to you about your souls. . . .
Many of you, I am afraid, are very careless. You are thinking
only about this world. I want you to remember that there is
a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am going there, and you.
can go there. It is for you, as much as me. But, if you want
to go there, you must not live idle, careless, thoughtless lives.
You must be Christians. You must remember that each one
of you can become angels, and be angels forever. ... If you.
want to be Christians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to
him ; you must read-

The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and
said, sorrowfully, —

" O, dear! you cant read, — poor souls!" and she hid her
face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob
from those she was addressing, who were kneeling on the floor,
aroused her.

" Never mind," she said, raising her face, and smiling brightly
through her tears, " I have prayed for you ; and I know Jesus
will help you, even if you can't read. Try all to do the best
you can ; pray every day ; ask him to help you, and get the
Bible read to you whenever you can ; and I think I shall see
you all in heaven."

" Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom
and Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the
Methodist church. The younger and more thoughtless ones,
for the time completely overcome, were sobbing, with their
heads bowed upon their knees.

" I know," said Eva, "you all love me."
" Yes ; 0, yes ! indeed we do ! Lord bless her ! " was the
involuntary answer of all.

" Yes, I know you do ! There is n't one of you that has n't
always been very kind to me ; and I want to give you some-
thing that, when you look at, you shall always remember me.
I 'm going to give all of you a curl of my hair ; and, when you
look at it, think that I loved you and am gone to heaven, and
that I want to see you all there."

It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs,
they gathered round the little creature, and took from her hands
what seemed to them a last mark of her love. They fell on
their knees ; they sobbed, and prayed, and kissed the hem of
her garment ; and the elder ones poured forth words of endear-
ment, mingled in prayers and blessings, after the manner of
their susceptible race.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 341

As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was appre-
hensive for the effect of all this excitement on her little patient,
signed to each one to pass out of the apartment.

At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy.

"Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, "is a beautiful one for you.
0, I am so happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in
heaven, — for I 'm sure I shall ; and, Mammy, — dear, good,
kind Mammy ! " she said, fondly throwing her arms round her
old nurse, — " I know you '11 be there, too."

" 0, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no how ! "
said the faithful creature. " ' Pears like it 's just taking every-
thing off the place to oncet ! " and Mammy gave way to a
passion of grief.

Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment,
and thought they were all gone ; but, as she turned, Topsy was
standing there.

" Where did you start up from 7 " she said, suddenly.

" I was here," said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes.
" 0, Miss Eva, I 've been a bad girl ; but won't you give me
one, too 1 "

" Yes, poor Topsy ! to be sure, I will. There — every time
you look at that, think that I love you, and wanted you to be
a good girl ! "

"0, Miss Eva, I is tryin' !" said Topsy, earnestly; "but,
Lor, it 's so hard to be good ! 'Pears like I an't used to it, no
ways ! "

" Jesus knows it, Topsy ; he is sorry for you ; he will help
you."

Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed
from the apartment by Miss Ophelia ; but, as she went, she
hid the precious curl in her bosom.

All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy
lady had wiped away many tears of her own, during the scene ;
but concern for the consequence of such an excitement to her
young charge was uppermost in her mind

St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his
hand shading his eyes, in the same attitude. When they were
all gone, he sat so still.

" Papa ! " said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his.

He gave a sudden start and shiver ; but made no answer.

" Dear papa ! " said Eva.

" I cannot," said St. Clare, rising, " I cannot have it so !

342 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

The Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me ! " and St.
Clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed.

" Augustine ! has not God a right to do what he will with
his own ] " said Miss Ophelia.

" Perhaps so ; but that does n't make it any easier to bear,"
said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away.

" Papa, you break my heart ! " said Eva, rising and throwing
(herself into his arms ; " you must not feel so ! " and the child
sobbed and wept with a violence which alarmed them all, and
turned her father's thoughts at once to another channel.

" There, Eva, — there, dearest ! Hush ! hush ! 1 was wrong ;
I was wicked. I will feel any way, do any way, — only don't
distress yourself ; don't sob so. I will be resigned ; 1 was
wicked to speak as I did."

Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms ; and
he, bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he
could think of.

Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her
own, when she fell into violent hysterics.

" You did n't give me a curl, Eva," said her father, smiling
sadly.

'• They are all yours, papa," said she, smiling, — " yours and
mamma's ; and you must give dear aunty as many as she
wants. I only gave them to our poor people myself, because
you know, papa, they might be forgotten when I am gone, and
because I hoped it might help them remember. . . . You are
a Christian, are you not, papa 1 " said Eva, doubtfully.

" Why do you ask me '< "

" I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you can
help it."

" What is being a Christian, Eva ? "

" Loving Christ most of all," said Eva.

"Do you, Eval"

" Certainly I do."

"You never saw him," said St. Clare.

" That makes no difference," said Eva. " I believe him, and
in a few days I shall see him " ; and the young face grew fer-
vent, radiant with joy.

St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen
before in his mother ; but no chord within vibrated to it.

Eva, after this, declined rapidly ; there was no more any
doubt of the event ; the fondeal hope could not be blinded.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

343

Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick-room, and Miss Ophe-
lia day and night performed the duties of a nurse, — and
never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that
capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect
adroitness and practice in every art which could promote neat-
ness and comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable
incident of sickness, — with such a perfect sense of time, such
a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering
|every prescription and direction of the doctor's, — she was
everything to him. They who had shrugged their shoulders
at her little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike the careless
freedom of southern manners, acknowledged that now she was
the exact person that was wanted.

Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered
much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her tc
be carried ; and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her little
frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and dowr>
her room, now out into the veranda ; and when the fresh sea-
breezes blew from the lake, — and the child felt freshest in the
morning, — he would sometimes walk with her under the
orange-trees in the garden, or, sitting down in some of their old
seats, sing to her their favorite old hymns.

Her father often did the same thing ; but his frame was
slighter, and when he was weary, Eva would say to him, -

" 0, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow ! it pleases him,
and you know it 's all he can do now, and he wants to do
something ! "

" So do I, Eva ! " said her father.

344 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to
me. You read to me, — you sit up nights, — and Tom has
only this one thing, and his singing ; and I know, too, he does
it easier than you can. He carries me so strong ! "

The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every
servant in the establishment showed the same feeling, and in
their way did what they could.

Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling ; but she
found no opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that the
state of her mind was such, it was impossible for her to rest ;
and, of course, it was against her principles to let any one else
rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy would be roused to
rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket-handker-
chief, to see what the noise was in Eva's room, to let down a
curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it was
too dark ; and, in the daytime, when she longed to have some
share in the nursing of her pet, Marie seemed unusually in-
genious in keeping her busy anywhere and everywhere all
over the house, or about her own person ; so that stolen inter-
views and momentary glimpses were all she could obtain.

"I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself,
now," she would say, " feeble as I am, and with the whole
care and nursing of that dear child upon me."

" Indeed, my dear," said St. Clare, " I thought our cousin
relieved you of that."

" You talk like a man, St. Clare, — just as if a mother could
be relieved of the care of a child in that state ; but, then, it 's
all alike, — no one ever knows what I feel ! I can't throw
things off, as you do."

St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he could n't help
it, — for St. Clare could smile yet. For so bright and placid
was the farewell voyage of the little spirit, — by such sweet and
fragrant breezes was the small bark borne towards the heavenly
shores, — that it was impossible to realize that it was death that
was approaching. The child felt no pain, — only a tranquil,
soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly increasing ; and she
was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so happy, that one could
not resist the soothing influence of that air of innocence and
•peace which seemed to breathe around her. St. Clare found a
strange calm coming over him. It was not hope, — that was
impossible ; it was not resignation ; it was only a calm resting
in the present, which seemed so beautiful that he wished to

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 345

think of no future. It was like that hush of spirit which we
feel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn, when the bright
hectic flush is on the trees, and the last lingering flowers by the
brook ; and we joy in it all the more, because we know that
soon it will all pass away.

The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and fore-
shadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said
what she would not disturb her father by saying. To him she
imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul feels, as
the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay forever.

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night
in the outer veranda, ready to rouse at every call.

" Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere
and everywhere, like a dog, for]" said Miss Ophelia. "I
thought you was one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed
in a Christian way."

" I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. " I do, but
now-

" Well, what now ] "

" We must n't speak loud ; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on 't ;
but, Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody watchin' for
the bridegroom."

" What do you mean, Tom ] "

"You know it says in Scripture, 'At midnight there was a
great cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That 's what
I 'm 'spectin' nov\r, every night, Miss Feely, — and I couldn't
sleep out o' hearin', no ways."

"Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so1?"

" Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messen-
ger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely ; for when that ai.
blessed child goes into the kingdom, they '11 open the door so
wide, we '11 all get a look in at the glory, Miss Feely."

" Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than
usual to-night 1 "

" No ; but she telled me, this morning, she was coming
nearer, — thar 's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely.
It 's the angels, — ' it 's the trumpet sound afore the break o'
day,' " said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn.

This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, be-
tween ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements had
all been made for the night, when, on going to bolt her outer
door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer veranda.

346 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

She was not nervous or impressible ; but the solemn, heart-
felt manner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and
cheerful, that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and
looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, and des-
ignated the friends to whom she would have them given ; and
her manner was more animated, and her voice more natural,
than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in, in
the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like her
former self than ever she had done since her sickness ; and when
he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophelia, — " Cousin,
we may keep her with us, after all ; she is certainly better " ;
and he had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he
had had there for weeks.

But at midnight, — strange, mystic hour! — when the veil
between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin, —
then came the messenger !

There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped
quickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all
night with her little charge, and who, at the turn of the night,
had discerned what experienced nurses significantly call " a
change." The outer door was quickly opened, and Tom, who
was watching outside, was on the alert, in a moment.

" Go for the doctor, Tom ! lose not a moment," said Miss
Ophelia : and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's
door.

" Cousin," she said, " I wish you would come."

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why
did they ? He was up and in the room in an instant, and bend-
ing over Eva, who still slept.

What was it he saw that made his heart stand still ? Why
was no word spoken between the two 1 Thou canst say, who
hast seen that same expression on the face dearest to thee ; —
that look indescribable, hopeless, unmistakable, that says to
thee that thy beloved is no longer thine.

On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly
imprint, — only a high and almost sublime expression, — the
overshadowing presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of im-
mortal life in that childish soul.

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the tick-
ing of the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments, Tom
returned, with the doctor. He entered, gave one look, and
stood silent as the rest.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 347

" When did this change take place ? " said he, in a low whis-
per, to Miss Ophelia.

"About the turn of the night," was the reply.

Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared, hur-
riedly, from the next room.

"Augustine ! Cousin ! — Oh ! — what ! " she hurriedly began.

" Hush ! " said St. Clare, hoarsely ; " she is dying! "

Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants.

The house was soon roused, — lights were seen, footsteps heard,

anxious faces thronged the veranda, and looked tearfully through

';he' glass doors ; but St. Clare heard and said nothing, — he saw

>nly that look on the face of the little sleeper.

" 0, if she would only wake, and speak once more ! " he said ;
and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear, — " Eva, darling ! "

The large blue eyes unclosed, — a smile passed over her face ;
— she tried to raise her head, and to speak.

" Do you know me, Eva 1 "

" Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing her
arms about his neck. In a moment they dropped again, and,
as St. Clare raised his head, he saw a spasm, of mortal agony
pass over the face, — she struggled for breath, and threw up
her little hands.

" 0, God, this is dreadful ! " he said, turning away in agony,
and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing.
" 0, Tom, my boy, it is killing me ! "

Tom had his master's hands between his own ; and, with
tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked up for help
where he had always been used to look.

" Pray that this may be cut short ! " said St. Clare, — " this
wrings my heart."

" 0, bless the Lord ! it's over, — it's over, dear Master!"
said Tom ; " look at her."

The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted, -
the large clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those
eyes, that spoke so much of heaven1? Earth was past, and
earthly pain ; but so solemn, so mysterious, was the triumph-
ant brightness of that face, that it checked even the sobs of
sorrow. They pressed around her, in breathless stillness.

" Eva," said St. Clare, gently.

She did not hear.

" 0, Eva, tell us what you see ! What is it ? " said her
father.

-
348 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she said,
brokenly, — " Oh ! love, —joy, -- peace ! " gave one sigh, and
passed from death unto life !

" Farewell, beloved child ! the bright, eternal doors have
closed after thee ; we shall see thy sweet face no more. 0,
woe for them who watched thy entrance into heaven, when
they shall wake and find only the cold gray sky of daily life,
and thou gone forever ! "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 349

CHAPTER XXVII.

"THIS IS THE LAST OF EARTH."

John Q. Adams.

HE statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were
shrouded in white napkins, and only hushed
breathings and muffled footfalls were heard there,
and the light stole in solemnly through windows
partially darkened by closed blinds.

The bed was draped in white ; and there, beneath the droop-
ing angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form, — sleeping never to
waken !

There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she
had been wont to wear when living ; the rose-colored light
through the curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a warm
glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure cheek ;
the head was turned a little to one side, as if in natural sleep,
but there was diffused over every lineament of the face that
high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose,
which showed it was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the
long, sacred rest which " He giveth to his beloved."

There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva ! neither dark-
Tiess nor shadow of death ; only such a bright fading as when
the morning star fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the
victory without the battle, — the crown without the conflict.

So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there
gazing. Ah ! who shall say what he did think ? for, from the
hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, " She is gone,"
it had been all a dreary mist, a heavy " dimness of anguish."
He had heard voices around him, he had had questions asked,
and answered them ; they had asked him when he would have
the funeral, and where they should lay her ; and he had an-
swered, impatiently, that he cared not.

Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber ; volatile, fickle,
and childish, as they generally were, they were soft-hearted
and full of feeling ; and, while Miss Ophelia presided over the*

350

UNCLE TOM S CABIN ; OR,

general details of order and neatness, it was their hands that
added those soft, poetic touches to the arrangements, that took
from the death-room the grim and ghastly air which too often
marks a New England funeral.

There were still flowers on the shelves, — all white, delicate,
and fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's little table.

covered with white, bore on it her favorite vase, with a single
white moss rosebud in it. The folds of the drapery, the fall
of the curtains, had been arranged and rearranged, by Adolph
and Eosa, with that nicety of eye which characterizes their race.
Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinking, little Eosa
tripped softly into the chamber with a basket of white (lowers.
She stepped back when she saw St. Clare, and stopped respect-
fully ; but, seeing that he did not observe her, she came for-
ward to place them around the dead. St. Clare saw her as it

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 351

a dream, while she placed in the small hands a fair cape jessa-
mine, and, with admirable taste, disposed other flowers around
the couch.

The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with
crying, appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa
made a quick, forbidding gesture ; but she took a step into the
x>oin.

" You must go out," said Eosa, in a sharp, positive whisper ;
•' you have n't any business here ! "

" U, do let me ! I brought a flower, — such a pretty one ! "
said Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rosebud. " Do let me
put just one there."

" Get along ! " said Rosa, more decidedly.

" Let her stay ! " said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot.
" She shall come."

Rosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid
her offering at the feet of the corpse ; then suddenly, with a
wild and bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside the
bed, and wept, and moaned aloud.

Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and
silence her ; but in vain.

" O, Miss Eva ! 0, Miss Eva ! I wish I 's dead, too, — I
do!"

There was a piercing wildness in the cry ; the blood flushed
into St. Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first tears he
had shed since Eva died stood in his eyes.

" Get np, child," said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice ;
" don't cry so. Miss Eva is gone to heaven ; she is an
angel."

" But I can't see her ! " said Topsy. " I never shall see
her ! " and she sobbed again.

They all stood a moment in silence.

" She said she loved me," said Topsy, — " she did ! 0, dear !
0, dear ! there an't nobody left now, — there an't ! "

" That 's true enough," said St. Clare ; " but do," he said to
Miss Ophelia, " see if you can't comfort the poor creature."

" I jist wish I had n't never been born," said Topsy. " I
did n't want to be born, no ways ; and I don't see no use
on V

Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her
from the room ; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her
eyes.

352 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" Topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into hei
room, " don't give up ! 7 can love you, though I am not like
that dear little child. I hope I 've learnt something of the
love of Christ from her. I can love you ; I do, and I '11 try
to help you to grow up a good Christian girl."

Miss Ophelia's voice was more than her words, and more
than that were the honest tears that fell down her face. Froir
that hour, she acquired an influence over the mind of the del
titute child that she never lost.

" 0, my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much oi
good," thought St. Clare, " what account have I to give for my
long years 1 "

There were, for a while, soft whisperings and footfalls in
the chamber, as one after another stole in, to look at the
dead ; and then came the little coffin ; and then there was a
funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and strangers came
and were seated ; and there were white scarfs and ribbons,
and crape bands, and mourners dressed in black crape ; and
there were words read from the Bible, and prayers offered ;
and St. Clare lived, and walked, and moved, as one who has
shed every tear ; — to the last he saw only one thing, that
golden head in the coffin ; but then he saw the cloth spread
over it, the lid of the coffin closed ; and he walked, when he
was put beside the others, down to a little place at the bottom
of the garden, and there, by the mossy seat where she and
Tom had talked, and sung, and read so often, was the little
grave. £*. Clare stood beside it, — looked vacantly down ;
he saw them lower the little coffin ; he heard, dimly, the
solemn words, " I am the Resurrection and the Life ; he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live " ;
and, as the earth was cast in and filled up the little grave, he
could not realize that it was his Eva that they were hiding
from his sight.

Nor was it ! — not Eva, but only the frail seed of that bright,
immortal form with which she shall yet come forth, in the day
of the Lord Jesus !

And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the
place which should know her no more ; and Marie's room
was darkened, and she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning
in uncontrollable grief, and calling every moment for the at-
tentions of all her servants. Of course, they had no time to
cry, - - why should they 1 the grief was her grief, and she was

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 353

fully convinced that nobody on earth did, could, or would fee)
it as she did.

" St. Clare did not shed a tear," she said ; " he did n't
sympathize with her ; it was perfectly wonderful to think how
hard-hearted and unfeeling he was, when he must know how
she suffered."

So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many
of the servants really thought that Missis was the principal
sufferer in the case, especially as Marie began to have hyster-
ical spasms, and sent for the doctor, and at last declared her-
self dying ; and, in the running and scampering, and bringing
up hot bottles, and heating of flannels, and chafing, and fussing,
that ensued, there was quite a diversion.

Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew him
to his master. He followed him wherever he walked, wistfully
and sadly ; and when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet,
in Eva's room, holding before his eyes her little open Bible,
though seeing no letter or word of what was in it, there was
more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed, tearless eye, than in all
Marie's moans and lamentations.

In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the
city ; Augustine, with the restlessness of grief, longing for an-
other scene, to change the current of his thoughts. So they
left the house and garden, with its little grave, and came back
to New Orleans ; and St. Clare walked the streets busily,
and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart with hurry
and bustle, and change of place ; and people who saw him in
the street, or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss only by the
weed on his hat ; for there he was, smiling and talking, and
reading the newspaper, and speculating on politics, and attend-
ing to business matters ; and who could see that all this smil-
ing outside was but a hollow shell over a heart that was a
dark and silent sepulchre 1

" Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to Miss
Ophelia, in a complaining tone. " I used to think, if there
was anything in the world he did love, it was our dear little
Eva ; but he seems to be forgetting her very easily. I cannot
ever get him to talk about her. I really did think he would
show more feeling ! "

" Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me," said Miss
Ophelia, oracularly.

" O, I don't believe in such things ; it 's all talk. If people

354 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

have feeling, they will show it, — they can't help it ; but,
then, it 's a great misfortune to have feeling. I 'd rather have
been made like St. Clare. My feelings prey upon me so ! "

" Sure, Missis, Mas'r St. Clare is gettin' thin as a shader.
They say, he don't never eat nothin','' said Mammy. " I
know he don't forget Miss Eva ; I know there could n't
nobody, — dear, little, blessed cretur ! " she added, wiping her
eyes.

" Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me," said
Marie ; " he has n't spoken one word of sympathy, and he
must know how much more a mother feels than any man can."

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness," said Miss Ophelia,
gravely.

" That 's just what I think. I know just what I feel, —
nobody else seems to. Eva used to, but she is gone ! " and
Marie lay back on her lounge, and began to sob disconsolately.

Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, in
whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it
never had in possession. Whatever she had, she seemed to
survey only to pick flaws in it ; but, once fairly away, there
was no end to her valuation of it.

While this conversation was taking place in the parlor, an-
other was going on in St. Clare's library.

Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about,
had seen him go to his library, some hours before ; and, after
vainly waiting for him to come out, determined, at last, to
make an errand in. He entered softly. St. Clare lay on his
lounge, at the further end of the room. He was lying on his
face, with Eva's Bible open before him, at a little distance.
Tom walked up, and stood by the sofa. He hesitated ; and,
while he was hesitating, St. Clare suddenly raised himself up.
The honest face, so full of grief, and with such an imploring
expression of affection and sympathy, struck his master. He
laid his hand on Tom's, and bowed down his forehead on it.

" 0, Tom, my bov, the whole world is as empty as an egg-
shell."

" I know it, Mas'r, — I know it," said Tom ; " but, 0, if
Mas'r could only look up, — up where our dear Miss Eva is,
— up to the dear Lord Jesus ! "

" Ah, Tom ! I do look up ; but the trouble is, I don't sef
anything, when I do. I wish I could "

Tom sighed heavily.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

355

:' It seems to be given to children, and poor, honest fellows,
like you, to see what we can't," said St. Clare. " How comes
it?"

' Thou hast ' hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed
unto babes,' " murmured Tom ; " < even so, Father, for so it
seemed good in thy sight.' "

" Tom, I don't believe, — I can't believe, - - I 've got the
habit of doubting," said St. Clare. " I want to believe this
Bible, —and I can't."

"Dear Mas'r, pray to the good Lord, --' Lord, I believe ;
help thou my unbelief.' '

"Who knows anything about anything 1" said St. Clare,
his eyes wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. " Was
all that beautiful love and faith only one of the ever-shifting
phases of human feeling, having nothing real to rest on, passing
away with the little breath 1 And is there no more Eva, — i
no heaven, — no Christ, -- nothing ? "

"0, dear Mas'r, there is! I know it; I'm sure of it,",
said Tom, falling on his knees. " Do, do, dear Mas'r, believe
it!"

" How do you know there 's any Christ, Tom ? You never
saw the Lord."

" Felt him in my soul, Mas'r, — feel him now ! O, Mas'r,
when I was sold away from my old woman and the children,

356 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

I was jest a'most broke up. I felt as if there warn't nothin'
left ; and then the good Lord, he stood by me, and he says,
' Fear not, Tom ' ; and he brings light and joy into a poor
feller's soul, — makes all peace ; and I 's so happy, and loves
everybody, and feels willin' jest to be the Lord's, and have the
Lord's will done, and be put jest where the Lord wants to put
me. I know it could n't come from me, 'cause I 's a poor, coru-
plainin' cretur ; it comes from the Lord ; and I know He 's
willin' to do for Mas'r."

Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St.
Clare leaned his head on his shoulder, and wrung the hard,
faithful, black hand.

" Tom, you love me," he said.

" I 's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, to see
Mas'r a Christian."

" Poor, foolish boy ! " said St. Clare, half raising himself.
" I 'm not worth the love of one good, honest heart, like
yours."

" 0, Mas^, dere 's more than me loves you, — the blessed
Lord Jesus loves you."

" How do you know that, Tom 1 " said St. Clare.

" Feels it in my soul. 0, Mas'r ! ' the love of Christ, that
passeth knowledge.' '

" Singular ! " said St. Clare, turning away, " that the story
of a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can
affect people so yet. But he was no man," he added, suddenly.
" No man ever had such long and living power ! O, that I
could believe what my mother taught me, and pray as I did
when I was a boy ! "

" If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, " Miss Eva used to read this
so beautifully. I wish Mas'r 'd be so good as read it. Don't
get noreadin', hardly, now Miss Eva 's gone."

The chapter was the eleventh of John, — the touching ac-
count of the raising of Lazarus. St. Clare read it aloud, often
pausing to wrestle down feelings which were roused by the
pathos of the story. Tom knelt before him, with clasped
hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, trust, adora-
tion, on his quiet face.

" Tom," said his master, " this is all real to you."

" I can jest fairly see it, Mas'r," said Tom.

" I wish I had your eyes, Tom."

" I wish, to the dear Lord, Mas'r had ! "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 357

" But, Tom, yon know that I have a great deal more knowl-
edge than yon ; what if I should tell you that I don't believe
this Bible T'

" 0, Mas'r ! " said Tom, holding up his hands, with a depre-
cating gesture.

" Would n't it shake your faith some, Tom ] "

" Not a grain," said Tom.

" Why, Tom, you must know I know the most."

" 0, Mas'r, have n't you jest read how he hides from the
'wise and prudent, and reveals unto babes 1 But Mas'r was n't
in earnest, for sartin, now ] " said Tom, anxiously.

" No, Tom, I was not. I don't disbelieve, and I think there
is reason to believe ; and still I don't. It 's a troublesome bad
habit I 've got, Tom."

" If Mas'r would only pray ! "

" How do you know I don't, Tom ] "

"Does Mas'r?"

" I would, Tom, if' there was anybody there when I pray ;
but it 's all speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come,
Tom, you pray, now, and show me how."

Tom's heart was full ; he poured it out in prayer, like waters
that have been long suppressed. One thing was plain enough ;
Tom thought there was somebody to hear, whether there were
or not. In fact, St. Clare felt himself borne, on the tide of his
faith and feeling, almost to the gates of that heaven he seemed
so vividly to conceive. It seemed to bring him nearer to Eva.

" Thank you, my boy," said St. Clare, when Tom rose ; " I
like to hear you, Tom ; but go, now, and leave me alone : some
other time, I '11 talk more."

Tom silently left the room.

358

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XXVIII.

REUNION.

(

&EEK after week glided away in the St. Clare
mansion, and the waves of life settled back to
their usual flow, where that little bark had gone
down. For how imperiously, how coolly, in dis-
regard of all one's feeling, does the hard, cold,
uninteresting course of daily realities move on ! Still must we
eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again, — still bargain, buy,
sell, ask and answer questions, — pursue, in short, a thousand
shadows, though all interest in them be over ; the cold, me-
chanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it
has fled.

All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had uncon-
sciously wound themselves around this child. It was for Eva
that he had managed his property ; it was for Eva that be had
planned the disposal of his time ; and, to do this and that for
Eva, — to buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dispose some-
thing for her, --had been so long his habit, that now she was
gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be
done.

True, there was another life, — a life which, once believed
in, stands as a solemn, significant figure before the otherwise
unmeaning ciphers of time, changing them to orders of mys-
terious, untold value. St. Clare knew this well ; and often, in
many a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish voice call-
ing him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing to him
the way of life ; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him,
— he could not arise. He had one of those natures which
could better and more clearly conceive of religious things from
its own perceptions and instincts, than many a matter-of-fact
and practical Christian. The gift to appreciate and the sense
to feel the finer shades and relations of moral tilings often
seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 359

disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often speak
words more wisely descriptive of the true religious sentiment,
than another man, whose whole life is governed by it. In such
minds, disregard of religion is a more fearful treason, — a more
deadly sin.

St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any relig-
ious obligation ; and a certain fineness of nature gave him such
an instinctive view of the extent of the requirements of Chris-
tianity, that he shrank, by anticipation, from what he felt would
be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did resolve
to assume them. For, so inconsistent is human nature, espe-
cially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems
better than to undertake and come short.

Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He read
his little Eva's Bible seriously and honestly ; he thought more
soberly and practically of his relations to his servants, — enough
to make him extremely dissatisfied with both his past and pres-
ent course ; and one thing he did, soon after his return to New
Orleans, and that was to commence the legal steps necessary to
Tom's emancipation, which was to be perfected as soon as he
could get through the necessary formalities. Meantime, he at-
tached himself to Tom more and more every day. In all the
wide world, there was nothing that seemed to remind him so much
of Eva ; and he would insist on keeping him constantly about
him, and, fastidious and unapproachable as he was with regard
to his deeper feelings, he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor
would any one have wondered at it, who had seen the expres-
sion of affection and devotion with which Tom continually fol-
lowed his young master.

" Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced
the legal formalities for his enfranchisement, " I 'm going to
make a free man of you ; — so, have your trunk packed, and
get ready to set out for Kentuck."

The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raised
his hands to heaven, his emphatic " Bless the Lord ! " rather
discomposed St. Clare ; he did not like it that Tom should be
so ready to leave him.

" You have n't had such very bad times here, that you need
be in such a rapture, Tom," he said, dryly.

" No, no, Mas'r ! 't an't that, — it 's bein' a, free man ! That's
what I 'm joyin' for."

" Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you Ve
been better off than to be free 1 "

360 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" No, indeed, Mas'r St. Clare," said Tom, with a Hash ol
energy. " No, indeed ! "

" Why, Tom, you could n't possibly have earned, by your
work, such clothes and such living as I have given you."

" Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare ; Mas'r 's been too good ;
but, Mas'r, I 'd rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor every-
thing, and have 'em mine, than have the best, and have 'en?
any man's else, — 1 had so, Mas'r; I think it's natur, Mas'r."

" I suppose so, Tom, and you '11 be going off and leaving me,
in a month or so," he added, rather discontentedly. " Though
why you should n't, no mortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone ;
and, getting up, he began to walk the floor.

" Not while Mas'r is in trouble," said Tom. " I '11 stay with
Mas'r as long as he wants me, — so as I can be any use."

" Not while I 'm in trouble, Tom 1 " said St. Clare, looking
sadly out of the window. ..." And when will my trouble be
over ? "

" When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom.

" And you really mean to stay by till that day ^omes? " said
St. Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid
his hand on Tom's shoulder. " Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy !
I won't keep you till that day. Go home to your wife and
children, and give, my love to all."

" I 's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom, earnestly,
and with tears in his eyes ; " the Lord has a work for Mas'r."

"A work, hey?" said St. Clare ; "well, now, Tom, give me
your views on what sort of a work it is ; — let 's hear."

" Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord ;
and Mas'r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends, —
how much he might do for the Lord ! "

" Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done
for him," said St. Clare, smiling.

" We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs," said
Tom.

"Good theology, Tom ; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare
swear," said St. Clare.

The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement
of some visitors.

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could
feel anything ; and, as she was a woman that had a great fac-
ulty of making everybody unhappy when she was, her imme-
diate attendants had still stronger reason to regret the loss of

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 361

their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle interces-
sions had so often been a shield to them from the tyrannical
and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old Mammy, in par-
ticular, whose heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, had
consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart-
broken. She cried day and night, and was, from excess of sor-
row, less skilful and alert in her ministrations on her mistress
•than usual, which drew down a constant storm of invectives on
her defenceless head.

Miss Ophelia felt the loss ; but, in her good and honest heart,
it bore fruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened, more1
gentle ; and, though equally assiduous in every duty, it was
with a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed with her
own heart not in vain. She was more diligent in teaching
Topsy, — taught her mainly from the Bible, — did not any
longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed dis-
gust, because she felt none. She viewed her now through the
softened medium that Eva's hand had first held before her eyes,
and saw in her only an immortal creature, whom God had sent
to be led by her to glory and virtue. Topsy did not become
at once a saint ; but the life and death of Eva did work a
marked change in her. The callous indifference was gone ; there
was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for good, -
a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed
again.

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she
came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom.

" What are you doing there, you limb? You 've been steal-
ing something, I '11 be bound," said the imperious little Eosa,
who had been sent co call her, seizing her, at the same time,
roughly by the arm.

•' You go 'long, Miss Rosa ! " said Topsy, pulling from her ;
" 't an't none o' your business ! "

" None o' your sa'ce ! " said Eosa. " I saw you hiding some-
thing, — I know yer tricks," and Eosa seized her arm, and tried
to force her hand into her bosom, while Topsy, enraged, kicked
and fought valiantly for what she considered her rights. The
clamor and confusion of the battle drew Miss Ophelia and St.
Clare both to the spot.

"She 's been stealing ! " said Eosa.

" I han't, neither ! " vociferated Topsy. sobbing with passion,

" Give me that, whatever it is ! " said Miss Ophelia, firmly.

362 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

Topsy hesitated ; but, on a second order, pulled out of her
bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old
stockings.

Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, which
had b«en given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of
scripture, arranged for every day in the year, and in a paper
the curl of hair that she had given her on that memorable day
when she had taken her last farewell.

St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it ; the little
book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from
the funeral weeds.

" What did you wrap this round the book for 1 " said St.
Clare, holding up the crape.

" 'Cause, - - 'cause, - - 'cause 't was Miss Eva. 0, don't take
'em away, please ! " she said ; and, sitting flat down on the
floor, and putting her apron over her head, she began to sob
vehemently.

It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,
-the little old stocking, -- black crape, — text-book, — fair,
soft curl, — and Topsy's utter distress.

St. Clare smiled ; but there were tears in his eyes, as he
said, -

" Come, come, — don't cry ; you shall have them ! " and,
putting them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew
Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor.

" I really think you can make something of that concern,"
he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder.
" Any mind that is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good.
You must try and do something with her."

" The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. " I
have great hopes of her ; but, Augustine," she said, laying her
hand on his arm, " one thing I want to ask ; whose is this
child to be 1 — yours or mine ] "

" Why, I gave her to you," said Augustine.

" But not legally ; - - I want her to be mine legally," said
Miss Ophelia.

" Whew ! cousin," said Augustine. " What will the Aboli-
tion Society think ] They '11 have a day of fasting appointed
for this backsliding, if you become a slaveholder ! "

" 0, nonsense ! I want her mine, that I may have a right
to take her to the free states, and give her her liberty, that all
I am trying to do be not undone."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 363

" 0, cousin, what an awful ' doing evil that good may come ' !
I can't encourage it."

" I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss Ophelia.
" There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian
child, unless I save her from all the chances and reverses of
slavery ; and, if you really are willing 1 should have her, 1 want
you to give me a deed of gift, or some legal paper."

"Well, well," said St. Clare, "I will"; and he sat down>
and unfolded a newspaper to read.

" But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia.

"What's your hurry?"

" Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing
in," said Miss Ophelia. " Come, now, here 's paper, pen, and
ink ; just write a paper."

St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated
the present tense of action, generally ; and, therefore, he was
considerably annoyed by Miss Ophelia's downrightness.

" Why, what 's the matter? " said he. " Can't you take my
word ? One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews,
coming at a fellow so ! "

" 1 want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. " You may
die, or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of
all I can do."

" Keally, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I 'm in the
hands of a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede " ;
and St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was
well versed in the forms of law, he could easily do, and signed
his name to it in sprawling capitals, concluding by a tremendous
flourish.

" There, is n't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont 1 "
he said, as he handed it to her.

" Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiling. " But must it not
be witnessed] "

" O, bother! — yes. Here/' he said, opening the door into
Marie's apartment, " Marie, cousin wants your autograph ; just
put your name down here."

"What's this?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper.
" Ridiculous ! I thought cousin was too pious for such horrid
things," she added, as she carelessly wrote her name, "but, if
she has a fancy for that article, I am sure she 's welcome."

" There, now, she 's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare,
handing the paper.

364

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

" No more mine now than she was before," said Miss Ophelia.
" Nobody but God has a right to give her to me j but I can
protect her now."

" Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare
as he turned back into the parlor, and sat down to his paper.

Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company

followed him into the parlor, having first carefully laid away
the paper.

" Augustine," she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, "have
you ever made any provision for your servants, in case of your
death 1 "

" No," said St. Clare, as he read on.

" Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great
cruelty, by and by."

St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he
answered, negligently, -

" Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by."

" When t " said Miss Ophelia.

" O, one of these days."

" What if you should die first ? "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 365

" Cousin, what 's the matter ? " said St. Clare, laying down
his paper and looking at her. " Do you think I show symptoms
of yellow fever or cholera, that you are making post-mortem
arrangements with such zeal ] "

" ' In the midst of life we are in death,' " said Miss Ophe-
lia.

St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly,
walked to the door that stood open on the veranda, to pub an.
end to a conversation that was not agreeable to him. Me-
chanically, he repeated the last word again, — "Death ! " — and,
as he leaned against the railings, and watched the sparkling
water as it rose and fell in the fountain, and, as in a dim and
dizzy haze, saw the flowers and trees and vases of the courts, he
repeated again the mystic word so common in every mouth,
yet of such fearful power, — " DEATH ! " " Strange that there
should be such a word," he said, " and such a thing, and we
ever forget it ; that one should be living, warm and beautiful,
full of hopes, desires, and wants, one day, and the next be
gone, utterly gone, and forever ! "

It was a warm, golden evening ; and, as he walked to the
other end of the veranda, he saw Tom busily intent on his
Bible, pointing, as he did so, with his finger to each successive
word, and whispering them to himself with an earnest air.

" Want me to read to you, Tom 1 " said St. Clare, seating
himself carelessly by him.

"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully, " Mas'r makes it
so much plainer."

St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began
reading one of the passages which Torn had designated by the
heavy marks around it. It ran as follows : —

'• When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all his
holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his
glory : and before him shall be gathered all nations ; and he
shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth
his sheep from the goats." St. Clare read on in an animated
voice, till he came to the last of the verses.

" Then shall the king say unto them on his left hand, De-
part from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire : for I was an
hungered, and ye gave me no meat : I was thirsty, and ye gave
me no drink : I was a stranger, and ye took me not in : naked,
and ye clothed me not; : I was sick, and in prison, and ye
visited me not. Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord, when

366 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

eaw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked,
or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee 1 Then
shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of
the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me."

St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it
twice, — the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving
the words in his mind.

" Tom," he said, " these folks that get such hard measure
seem to have been doing just what 1 have, — living good,
easy, respectable lives; and not troubling themselves to inquire
how many of their brethren were hungry, or athirst, or sick, or
in prison."

Tom did not answer.

St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the
veranda, seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts ;
so absorbed was he, that Tom had to remind him twice that
the tea-bell had rung, before he could get his attention.

St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After
tea, he and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the
parlor, almost in silence.

Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito
curtain, and was soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently
busied herself with her knitting. St. Clare sat down to the
piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy movement
with the J^olian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep rev-
erie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. After a
little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-
book whose leaves were yellow with age, and began turning it
over.

" There," he said to Miss Ophelia, " this was one of my
mother's books, — and here is her handwriting, — come and
look at it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart's Re-
quiem." Miss Ophelia came accordingly.

" It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare.
" I think I can hear her now."

He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that
grand old Latin piece, the " Dies Irse."

Tom, who was listening in the outer veranda, was drawn
by the sound to the very door, where he stood earnestly. He
did not understand the words, of course ; but the music and
manner of singing appeared to affect him strongly, especially
when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts. Tom would

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 367

have sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning
of the beautiful words : -

" Recordare Jesu pie
Quod sum causa tuse vise
Ne me penlas. ilia die
Quaarens me sedisti lassus
Kedemisti cruceni passus
Tantus labor nou sit cassus."

St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the
words ; for the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and
he seemed to hear his mother's voice leading his. Voice and
instrument seemed both living, and threw out with vivid sym-
pathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart first conceived
as his own dying requiem.

When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head
upon his hand a few moments, and then began walking up
and down the floor.

" What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment ! "
said he, — "a righting of all the wrongs of ages ! — a solving
of all moral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom ! It is,
indeed, a wonderful image."

" It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia.

" It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare, stopping,
thoughtfully. " I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that
chapter in Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have
been quite struck with it. One should have expected some
terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded from
Heaven, as the reason ; but no, — they are condemned for not
doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm."

"Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a per-
son who does no good not to do harm."

" And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with
deep feeling, " what shall be said of one whose own heart,
whose education, and the wants of society have called in A'ain
to some noble purpose ; who has floated on, a dreamy, neutral

* These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated : —

" Think, 0 Jesus, for what reason
Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason,
Nor me lose, in that dread season ;
Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted,
On the cross thy sou! death tasted,
Let not all these toils be wasted."

368 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

spectator of the struggles, agonies, and wrongs of man, when
he should have been a worker '( "

" I should say," said Miss Ophelia, " that he ought to repent,
and begin now."

" Always practical and to the point ! " said St. Clare, his
face breaking out into a smile. " You never leave me any
time for general reflections, cousin ; you always bring me
short up against the actual present ; you have a kind of eter-
nal now, always in your mind."

" Now is all the time I have anything to do with," said Miss
Ophelia.

" Dear little Eva, — poor child ! " said St. Clare, " she had
set her little simple soul on a good work for me."

It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever said
as many words as these of her, and he spoke now evidently re-
pressing very strong feeling.

" My view of Christianity is such," he added, " that I think
no man can consistently profess it without throwing the whole
weight of his being against this monstrous system of injustice
that lies at the foundation of all our society ; and, if need be,
sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I mean that / could
not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly had in-
tercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian people
who did no such thing ; and I confess that the apathy of relig-
ious people on this subject, their want of perception of wrongs
that filled me with horror, have engendered in me more scepti-
cism than any other thing."

" If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, " why did n't
you do it T'

" 0, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which
consists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy
for not being martyrs and confessors. One can see, you know,
very easily, how others ought to be martyrs."

"Well, are you going to do differently now1?" said Miss
Ophelia.

" God only knows the future," said St. Clare. " I am braver
than I was, because I have lost all ; and he who has nothing te
lose can afford all risks."

" And what are you going to do 1 "

" My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it
out," said St. Clare, " beginning with my own servants, for
whom I have yet done nothing ; and, perhaps, at some future

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 309

day, it may appear that I can do something for a whole class ;
something to save my country from the disgrace of that false
position in which she now stands before all civilized nations."

" Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will volun-
tarily emancipate 1 " said Miss Ophelia.

" I don't know," said St. Clare. " This is a day of great
deeds. Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and
there, in the earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions of
serfs, at an immense pecuniary loss ; and, perhaps, among us
may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate honor and
justice by dollars and cents."

" I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia.

" But, suppose we should rise up to-morrow and emancipate,
who would educate these millions, and teach them how to use
their freedom 1 They never would rise to do much among us.
The fact is, we are too lazy and unpractical, ourselves, ever to
give them much of an idea of that industry and energy which
is necessary to form them into men. They will have to go
north, where labor is the fashion, — the universal custom ; and
tell me, now, is there enough Christian philanthropy, among
your northern states, to bear with the process of their education
and elevation '? You send thousands of dollars to foreign mis-
sions ; but could you endure to have the heathen sent into
your towns and villages, and give your time, and thoughts, and
money, to raise them to the Christian standard? That's what
I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willing to educate 1
How many families, in your town, would take in a negro man
and woman, teach them, bear with them, and seek to make them
Christians ? How many merchants would take Adolph, if I
wanted to make him a clerk ; or mechanics, if I wanted him
taught a trade 1 If I wanted to put Jane and Eosa to a school,
how many schools are there in the northern states that would
take them in ? how many families that would board them 1 and
yet they are as white as many a woman, north or south. You
see, cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad position.
We are the more obvious oppressors of the negro ; but the un-
christian prejudice of the north is an oppressor almost equall}

severe."

" Well, cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia, — "1
know it was so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to over-
come it ; but, I trust I have overcome it ; and I know there
are many good people at the north, who in this matter need

370 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

only to be taught what their duty is, to do it. It would cer-
tainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen among us,
than to send missionaries to them ; but I think we would do
it."

" You would, I know," said St. Clare. "I'd like to see
anything you would n't do, if you thought it your duty ! "

" Well, I 'm not uncommonly good," said Miss Ophelia.
" Others would, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take
Topsy home, when I go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at
first ; but I think they will be brought to see as I do. Be-
sides, I know there are many people at the north who do ex-
actly what you said."

" Yes, but they are a minority ; and, if we should begin to
emancipate to any extent, we should soon hear from you."

Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some
moments ; and St. Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad,
dreamy expression.

" I don't know what makes me think of my mother so much,
to-night," he said. " I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she
were near me. J keep thinking of things she used to say.
Strange, what brings these past things so vividly back to us,
sometimes ! "

St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes
more, and then said, —

' i believe I '11 go down street, a few moments, and hear the
news, to-night."

He took his hat, and passed out.

Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and
asked if he should attend him.

" No, my boy," said St. Clare. " I shall be back in an hour."
Tom sat down in the veranda. It was a beautiful moonlight
evening, and he sat watching the rising and falling spray of the
fountain, and listening to its murmur. Tom thought of his
home, and that he should soon be a free man, and able to re-
turn to it at will. He thought how he should work to buy his
wife and boys. He felt the muscles of his brawny arms with
a sort of joy, as he thought they would soon belong to himself,
and how much they could do to work out the freedom of his
family. Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever
second to that, came the habitual prayer that he had always
offered for him ; and then his thoughts passed on to the beau-
-iiul Eva. whom he now thought of among the angels : and he

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

371

thought till he almost fancied that that bright face and golden
hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of the fountain.
And, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her com-
ing bounding towards him, just as she used to come, with a
wreath of jessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her
eyes radiant with delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise
from the ground ; her cheeks wore a paler hue, - - her eyes had
a deep, divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her head,
— and she vanished from his sight; and Tom was awakened by
a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices at the gate.

He hastened to undo it ; and, with smothered voices and
heavy tread, came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a
cloak, and lying on a shutter. The light of the lamp fell full
on the face ; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement and de-
spair, that rung through all the galleries, as the men advanced,
with their burden, to the open parlor door, where Miss Ophelia
still sat knitting.

St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening
paper. As he was reading, an affray arose between two gentle-
men in the room, who were both partially intoxicated. St.
Clare and one or two others made an effort to separate them,
and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side with a bowie-
knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of them.

The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and
screams ; servants frantically tearing their hair, throwing them-

372 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

selves on the ground, or running distractedly about, lamenting.
Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have any presence of
mind ; for Marie was in strong hysteric convulsions. At Miss
Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges in the parlor was hastily
prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it. St. Clare had
fainted, through pain anc1. loss of blood ; but, as Miss Ophelia
applied restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly
on them, looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling
wistfully over every object, and finally they rested on his moth-
er's picture.

The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It
was evident, from the expression of his face, that there was
no hope; but he applied himself 'to dressing the wound, and
he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceeded composedly with this
work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries of the affrighted
servants, who had clustered about the doors and windows of
the veranda.

" Now," said the physician, " we must turn all these crea-
tures out ; all depends on his being kept quiet."

St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the dis-
tressed beings, whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying
to urge from the apartment. " Poor creatures ! " he said, and
an expression of bitter self-reproach passed over his face.
Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror had deprived him of
all presence of mind ; he threw himself along on the floor, and
nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to Miss
Ophelia's urgent representations, that their master's safety de-
pended on their stillness and obedience.

St. Clare could say but little ; he lay with his eyes shut,
but it was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. Af-
ter a while, he laid his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling be-
side him, and said, " Tom ! poor fellow ! "

" What, Mas'r 1 " said Tom, earnestly.

" I am dying ! " said St. Clare, pressing his hand ; " pray ! "

" If you would like a clergyman - " said the physician.

St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom,
more earnestly, " Pray ! "

And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the
soul that was passing, — the soul that seamed looking so
steadily and mournfully from those large, melancholy blue eyes.
It was literally prayer offered with strong crying and tears-

When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

373

his hand, looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He
closed his eyes, but still retained his hold ; for, in the gates of
eternity, the black hand and the white hold each other with
an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at broken in-
tervals, —

" Recordare Jesu pie —

* * *

Ne me perdas — ille die
Quaerens me — sedisti lassus. "

It was evident that the words he had been singing that
evening were passing through his mind, — words of entreaty
addressed to Infinite Pity. His lips moved at intervals, as
parts of the hymn fell brokenly from them.

" His mind is wandering," said the doctor.

" No ! it is coming HOME, at last ! " said St: Clare, energeti-
cally ; « at last ! at last ! "

The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking paleness
of death fell on him ; but with it there fell, as if shed from
the wings of some pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of
peace, like that of a wearied child who sleeps.

So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty
hand was on him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened
his eyes, with a sudden light, as of joy and recognition, and
eaid " Mother !" and then he was gone !

374

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XXIX

THE UNPROTECTED.

IE hear often of the distress of the negro servants,
on the loss of a kind master ; and with good
reason, for no creature on God's earth is left
more utterly unprotected and desolate than the
slave in these circumstances.
The child who has lost a father has still the protection of
friends, and of the law ; he is something, and can do some-
thing, - - has acknowledged rights and position ; the slave has
none. The law regards him, in every respect, as devoid of
rights as a hale of merchandise. The only possible acknowl-
edgment of any of the longings and wants of a human and
immortal creature, which are given to him, comes to him
through the sovereign and irresponsible will of his master ;
and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains.

The number of those men who know how to use wholly irre-
sponsible power humanely and generously is small. Every-
body knows this, and the slave knows it best of all ; so that
he feels that there are ten chances of his finding an abusive
and tyrannical master, to one of his finding a considerate and
kind one. Therefore is it that the wail over a kind master is
loud and long, as well it may be.

When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation
took hold of all his household. He had been stricken down so
in a moment, in the flower and strength of his youth ! Every
room and gallery of the house resounded with sobs and shrieks
of despair.

Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a con-
stant course of self-indulgence, had nothing to support the
terror of the shock, and, at the time her husband breathed his
last, was passing from one fainting fit to another;, and he to
whom she had been joined in the mysterious tie of marriage
passed from her forever, without the possibility of even a part-
ing word.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 375

Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control^
had remained with her kinsman to the last, — all eye, all ear,
all attention ; doing everything of the little that could be done,
and joining with her whole soul in the tender and impassioned
prayers which the poor slave had poured forth for the soul of
his dying master.

When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found
upon his bosom a small, plain miniature-case, opening with a
spring. It was the miniature of a noble and beautiful female
face ; and on the reverse, under a crystal, a lock of dark hair.
They laid them back on the lifeless breast, — dust to dust, —
poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once made that
cold heart beat so warmly !

Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity ; and
while he ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once
think that the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery.
He felt at peace about his master ; for in that hour, when ho
had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his Father, he
had found an answer of quietness and assurance springing up
within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate nature,
he felt able to perceive something of the fulness of Divine
love ; for an old oracle hath thus written, — " He that dwell-
eth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him." Tom hoped
and trusted, and was at peace.

But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape,
and prayers, and solemn faces ; and back rolled the cool,
muddy waves of every-day life ; and up came the everlasting
hard inquiry of " What is to be done next 1 "

It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-
robes, and surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a
great easy-chair, and inspected samples of crape and bomba-
zine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who began to turn her thoughts
towards her northern home. It rose, in silent terrors, to the
minds of the servants, who well knew the unfeeling, tyranni-
cal character of the mistress in whose hands they were left
All knew, very well, that the indulgences which had been ac-
corded to them were not from their mistress, but from their
master ; and that, now he was gone, there would be no screen
between them and every tyrannous infliction which a temper
soured by affliction might devise.

It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia,
busied one day in her. apartment, heard a gentle tap at the

376 UNCLE TOM'S CAiilN ; OR,

door. She opened it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty young
quadroon, whom we have before often noticed, her hair in dis-
order, and her eyes swelled with crying.

" O, Miss Feely," she said, falling on her knees, and catch-
ing the skirt of her dress, " do, do go to Miss Marie for me !
do plead for me ! She 's goin' to send me out to be whipped,
— look there ! " And she handed to Miss Ophelia a paper.

It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand, to
the master of a whipping establishment, to give the bearer fif-
teen lashes.

" What have you been doing ! " said Miss Ophelia.

" You know, Miss Feely, 1 've got such a bad temper ; it 's
very bad of me. I was trying on Miss Marie's dress, and she
slapped my face ; and I spoke out before 1 thought, and was
saucy, and she said that she 'd bring me clown, and have me
know, once for all, that I was n't going to be so topping as I
had been ; and she wrote this, and says I shall carry it. I 'd
rather she, 'd kill me, right out."

Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand.

" You see, Miss Feely," said Rosa, " I don't mind the whip-
ping so much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it ; but, to be
sent to a man ! and such a horrid man, — the shame of it,
Miss Feely ! "

Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom to
send women and young girls to whipping-houses, to the hands
of the lowest of men, — men vile enough to make this their
profession, • — there to be subjected to brutal exposure and
shameful correction. She had known it before; but hitherto
she had never realized it, till she saw the slender form of
Rosa almost convulsed with distress. All the honest blood
of womanhood, the strong New England blood of liberty,
flushed to her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in her indignant
heart ; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, she mas'
tered herself, and, crushing the paper firmly in her hand, she
merely said to Rosa, —

" Sit clown, child, while I go to your mistress."

" Shameful ! monstrous ! outrageous ! " she said to herself,
as she was crossing the parlor.

She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with Mammy
standing by her, combing her hair ; Jane sat on the ground
before her, busy in chafing her feet.

" How do you find yourself, to-day I " said Miss Ophelia.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 377

A deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, was the only reply,
for a moment ; and then Marie answered : " U, I don't know,
cousin ; I suppose I 'm as well as I ever shall be ! " and Marie
wiped her eyes with a cambric handkerchief, bordered with an
inch deep of black.

" I came," said Miss Ophelia, vrith a short, dry congh, suclf
as commonly introduces a difficult subject, — "I came to speak
with you about poor Rosa."

Marie's eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush rose to
her sallow cheeks, as she answered, sharply, —

"Well, what about her?"

" She is very sorry for her fault."

"She is, is she? She'll be sorrier, before I 've done with
her ! I 've endured that child's impudence long enough ; and
now I '11 bring her down, — I '11 make her lie in the
dust!"

" But could not you punish her some other way, — some
way that would be less shameful 1 "

" I mean to shame her ; th:it 's just what I want. She has
all her life presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and
her lady-like airs, till she forgets who she is ; — and I '11 give
her one lesson that will bring her down, I fancy ! "

" But, cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy- and a
sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast."

" Delicacy ! " said Marie, with a scornful laugh, — " a fine
word for such as she ! I '11 teach her, with all her airs, that
she 's no better than the raggedest black wench that walks the
streets ! She '11 take no more airs with me ! "

" You will answer to God for such cruelty ! " said Miss
Ophelia, with energy.

" Cruelty, — I 'd like to know what the cruelty is ! I wrote
orders for only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them on
lightly. I 'm sure, there 's no cruelty there ! "

" No cruelty ! " said Miss Ophelia. " I 'm sure any girl
might rather be killed outright ! "

" It might seem so to anybody with your feeling ; but aH
these creatures get used to it ; it 's the only way they can be
kept in order. Once let them feel that they are to take any
airs about delicacy, and all that, and they '11 run all over you,
just as my servants always have. I 've begun now to bring
them under ; and I '11 have them all to know that I '11 send
one out to be whipped, as soon as another, if they don't mind
themselves !." said Marie, looking around her decidedly

378 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if it
was particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment,
as if she had swallowed some explosive mixture, and were ready
to burst. Then, recollecting the utter uselessness of contention
with such a nature, she shut her lips resolutely, gathered her-
self up, and walked out of the room.

It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do noth-
ing for her ; and, shortly after, one of the man-servants came to
say that her mistress had ordered him to take Rosa with him to
the whipping-house, whither she was hurried, in spite of her
tears and entreaties.

A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the balconies,
when he was joined by Adolph, who, since the death of his
master, had been entirely crestfallen and disconsolate. Adolph
knew that he had always been an object of dislike to Marie ;
but while his master lived he had paid but little attention to
it. Now that he was gone, he had moved about in daily dread
and trembling, not knowing what might befall him next. Marie
had held several consultations with her lawyer ; after commu-
nicating with St. Clare's brother, it was determined to sell the
place, and all the servants, except her own personal property,
and these she intended to take with her, and go back to her
father's plantation.

" Do ye know, Tom, that we 've all got to be sold ? *' said
Adolph.

" How did you hear that '< " said Tom.

" I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talking
with the lawyer. In a few days we shall all be sent off to
auction, Tom."

" The Lord's will be done ! " said Tom, folding his arms and
sighing heavily.

" We '11 never get another such a master," said Adolph, ap-
prehensively ; " but I 'd rather be sold than take my chance
under Missis."

Tom turned away ; his heart was full. The hope of liberty,
the thought of distant wife and children, rose up before his
patient soul, as to the mariner shipwrecked almost in port rises
the vision of the church-spire and loving roofs of his native
village, seen over the top of some black wave only for one last
farewell. He drew his arms tightly over his bosom, and choked
back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. The poor old soul had
such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in favor of liberty, that it

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 379

was a hard wrench for him ; and the more he said, " Thy will
be done," the worse he felt.

He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva's death, had
treated him with marked and respectful kindness.

" Miss Feely," he said " Mas'r St. Clare promised me my
freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out for me ;
and now, perhaps, if Miss Feely would be good enough to speak
about it to Missis, she would feel like goiii' on with it, as it was
Mas'r St. Clare's wish."

" I '11 speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss Ophelia ;
"but, if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope much for
you ; — nevertheless, I will try."

This incident occurred a few days after that of Eosa, while
Miss Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north.

Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that per-
haps she had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her
former interview with Marie ; and she resolved that she would
now endeavor to moderate her zeal, and to be as conciliatory as
possible. So the good soul gathered herself up, and, taking her
knitting, resolved to go into Marie's room, be as agreeable as
possible, and negotiate Tom's case with all the diplomatic skill
of which she was mistress.

She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, support-
ing herself on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been
out shopping, was displaying before her certain samples of thin
black stuffs.

" That will do," said Marie, selecting one ; " only I 'm not
sure about its being properly mourning."

" Laws, Missis," said Jane, volubly, " Mrs. General Derben-
non wore just this very thing, after the General died, last sum-
mer ; it makes up lovely ! "

" What do you think?" said Marie to Miss Ophelia.

" It 's a matter of custom, I suppose," said Miss Ophelia.
"You can judge about it better than I."

" The fact is," said Marie, " that I have n't a dress in the
world that I can wear ; and, as I am going to break up the
establishment, and go off, next week, I must decide upon some-
thing."

" Are you going so soon 1 "

" Yes. St. Clare's brother has written, and he and the law-
yer think that the servants and furniture had better be put up
at auction, and the place left with our lawyer."

380 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" There 's one thing I wanted to speak with you about," said
Miss Ophelia. "Augustine promised Toin his liberty, and be-
gan the legal forms necessary to it. I hope you will use your
influence to have it perfected."

"Indeed, I shall do no such thing!" said Marie, sharply.
" Tom is one of the most valuable servants on the place, — it,
could n't be afforded, any way. Besides, what does he want of
liberty ] He 's a great deal better off as he is."

" But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master prom-
ised it," said Miss Ophelia.

" I dare say he does want it," said Marie ; " they all want
it, just because they are a discontented set, — always wanting
what they have n't got. Now, I 'm principled against eman-
cipating, in any case. Keep a negro under the care of a mas-
ter, and he does Avell enough, and is respectable ; but set them
free, and they get lazy, and won't work, and take to drinking,
and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows. I 've seen it
tried, hundreds of times. It 's no favor to set them free."

"But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious."

" 0, you need n't tell me ! I 've seen a hundred like him.
He '11 do very well, as long as he 's taken care of, — that 's all."

" But, then, consider," said Miss Ophelia, " when you set him
up for sale, the chances of his getting a bad master."

" 0, that 's all humbug ! " said Marie ; " it is n't one time in
a hundred that a good fellow gets a bad master ; most masters
are good, for all the talk that is made. I 've lived and grown
up here, in the south, and I never yet was acquainted with a
master that did n't treat his servants well, — quite as well as is
worth while. I don't feel any fears on that head."

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, energetically, " I know it was
one of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should have
his liberty ; it was one of the promises that he made to dear
little Eva on her death-bed, and I should not think you would
feel at liberty to disregard it."

Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this
appeal, and began sobbing and using her smelling-bottle, with
great vehemence.

" Everybody goes against me ! " she said. " Everybody is
so inconsiderate ! I should n't have expected that you would
oring up all these remembrances of my troubles to me, — it 's
so inconsiderate ! But nobody ever does consider, — my trials
are so peculiar ! It 's so hard, that when I had only one

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

381

daughter, she should have been taken ! — and when I had a
husband that just exactly suited me, — and I 'm so hard to be
suited ! ~ - he should be taken ! And you seem to have so little
feeling for me, and keep bringing it up to me so carelessly, —
when you know how it overcomes me ! I suppose you mean
well; but it is very inconsiderate, --very !" Arid Marie
sobbed, and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to open the
window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her
Lead, and unhook her dress. And, in the general confusion
tiiat ensued, Miss Ophelia made her escape to her apartment-

She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say anything
more; for Marie had an -indefinite capacity for hysteric fits,
and, after this, whenever her husband's or Eva's wishes with
regard to the servants were alluded to, she always found it
convenient to set one in operation. Miss Ophelia, therefore,
did the next best thing she could for Tom, — she wrote a letter
to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging them
to send to his relief.

The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen other
servants, were marched down to a slave warehouse, to await the
convenience of the trader, who was going to make up a lot foi
tiuction.

38:?

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR..

CHAPTEE XXX.

THE SLAVE WAREHOUSE.

SLAVE warehouse ! Perhaps some of my readers
conjure up horrible visions of such a place. They
fancy some foul, obscure den, some horrible Tar-
tarus " informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.1
But no, innocent friend ; in these days men have
learned the art of sinning expertly and genteelly, so as not to
shock the eyes and senses of respectable society. Human
property is high in the market ; and is, therefore, well fed,
well cleaned, tended, and looked after, that it may come to sale
sleek, and strong, and shining. A slave warehouse in New
Orleans is a house externally not much unlike many others,
kept with neatness ; and where every day you may see arranged,
under a sort of shed along the outside, rows of men and women,
who stand there as a sign of the property sold within.

Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and examine,
and shall find an abundance of husbands, wives, brothers, sis-
ters, fathers, mothers, and young children, to be "sold sep-
arately, or in lots to suit the convenience of the purchaser " ;
and that soul immortal, once bought with blood and anguish
by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the rocks rent,
and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased, mortgaged,
exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to suit the phases of trade,
or the fancy of the purchaser.

It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie
and Miss Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen
others of the St. Clare estate, were turned over to the loving

kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the keeper of a depot on street,

to await the auction next day.

Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, as
had most others of them. They were ushered, for the night,
into a long room, where many other men, of all ages, sizes, and
shades of complexion, were assembled, and from which roars o4.
laughter and unthinking merriment were proceeding.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 383

" Ah, ha ! that 's right. Go it, boys, — go it ! " said Mr.
Skeggs, the keeper. " My people are always so merry ! Sam-
bo, I see ! " he said, speaking approvingly to a burly negro who
was performing tricks of low buffoonery, which occasioned the
shouts which Tom had heard.

As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join these
proceedings ; and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible
from the noisy group, he sat down on it, and leaned his face
against the wall.

The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and syste-
matic efforts to promote noisy mirth among them, as a means
of drowning reflection, and rendering them insensible to their
condition. The whole object of the training to which the
negro is put, from the time he is sold in the northern market
till he arrives south, is systematically directed towards making
him callous, unthinking, and brutal. The slave- dealer collects
his gang in Virginia or Kentucky, and drives them to some
convenient, healthy place, — often a watering-place, — to be
fattened. Here they are fed full daily; and, because some
incline to pine, a fiddle is kept commonly going among them,
and they are made to dance daily ; and he who refuses to be
merry — in whose soul thoughts of wife, or child, or home, are
too strong for him to be gay-- is marked as sullen and danger-
ous, and subjected to all the evils which the ill-will of an
utterly irresponsible and hardened man can inflict upon him.
Briskness, alertness, and cheerfulness of appearance, especially
before observers, are constantly enforced upon them, both by
the hope of thereby getting a good master, and the fear of all
that the driver may bring upon them, if they prove un-
salable.

" What dat ar nigger doin' here 1 " said Sambo, coming up
to Tom, after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was a full
black, of great size, very lively, voluble, and full of trick and
grimace.

" What you doin' here ? " said Sambo, coming up to Tom,
and poking him facetiously in the side. " Meditatin', eh?"

" I am to be sold at the auction, to-morrow ! " said Tom,
quietly.

" Sold at auction, — haw ! haw ! boys, an't this yer fun ? I
wish 't I was gwine that ar way ! — tell ye, would n't I make
'em laugh ] But how is it, — dis yer whole lot gwine to-mor-
row 1 " said Sambo, laying his hand freely on Adolph's shoulder.

384

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" Please to let me alone ! " said Adolph, fiercely, straighten-
ing himself up, with extreme disgust.

"Law, now, boys! dis yer 's one o' yer white niggers, — •
kind o' cream-color, ye know, scented ! " said he, coming up to

Adolph and snuffing. " O, Lor ! he 'd do for a tobaccer-shop •,
they could keep him to scent snuff ! Lor, he 'd keep a whole
shop agwine, - - he would ! "

" I say, keep off, can't you 1 " said Adolph, enraged.

" Lor, now, how touchy we is, — we white niggers ! Look
at us, now ! " and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Adolph's
manner; "here's de airs and graces. We's been in a good
family, I specs."

" Yes," said Adolph ; " I had a master that could have bought
you all for old truck ! "

" Laws, now, only think," said Sambo, " the gentlemens that
we is ! "

" I belonged to the St. Clare family," said Adolph, proudly.

" Lor, you did ! Be hanged if they ar' n't lucky to get shet
of ye. Spects they 's gwine to trade ye off with a lot o' cracked
teapots and sich like ! " said Sambo, with a provoking grin.

Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adver-
sary, swearing and striking on every side of him. The rest
laughed and shouted, and the uproar brought the keeper to the
door.

"What now, boys? Order, — order!" he said, coming in
and flourishing a large whip.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 385

All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, presum-
ing on the favor which the keeper had to him as a licensed
wag, stood his ground, ducking his head with a facetious grin,
whenever the master made a dive at him.

" Lor, Mas'r, 't an't us, — we 's reg'lar stiddy, — it 's these yer
new hands ; they 's real aggravating — kinder pickin' at us, all
time ! "

The keeper, at this, turned upon Tom and Adolph, and dis-
tributing a few kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, and
leaving general orders for all to be good boys and go to sleep,
left the apartment.

While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping-room,
the reader may be curious to take a peep at the corresponding
apartment allotted to the women. Stretched out in various
attitudes over the floor, he may see numberless sleeping forms
of every shade of complexion, from the purest ebony to white,
and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now asleep.
Here is a fine bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was sold
out yesterday, and who to-night cried herself to sleep when
nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose
thin arms and callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be
sold to morrow, as a cast-off article, for what can be got for
her ; and some forty or hfty others, with heads variously
enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, lie stretched
around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from the rest, are
two females of a more interesting appearance than common.
One of these is a respectably dressed mulatto woman between
forty and fifty, with soft eyes and a gentle and pleasing physi-
ognomy. She has on her head a high-raised turban, made of a
gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first quality, and her dress
is neatly fitted, and of good material, showing that she has
been provided for with a careful hand. By her side, and
nestling closely to her, is a young girl of fifteen, — her
daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be seen from her fairer
complexion, though her likeness to her mother is quite dis-
cernible. She has the same soft, dark eye, with longer lashes,
and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown. She also is
dressed with great neatness, and her white, delicate hands betray
very little acquaintance with servile toil. These two are to be
sold to-morrow, in the same lot with the St. Clare servants ;
and the gentleman to whom they belong, and to whom the
money for their sale is to be transmitted, is a member of a

386 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Christian church in New York, who will receive the money,
and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord and theirs, and
think no more of it.

These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had
been the personal attendants of an amiable and pious lady of
New Orleans, by whom they had been carefully and piously
instructed and trained. They had been taught to read and
write, diligently instructed in the truths of religion, and their
lot had been as happy an one as in their condition it was pos-
sible to be. But the only son of their protectress had the
management of her property ; and, by carelessness and extrav-
agance, involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One
of the largest creditors was the respectable firm of B. & Co., in
New York. B. & Co. wrote to their lawyer in New Orleans,
who attached the real estate (these two articles and a lot of
plantation hands formed the most valuable part of it), and
wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B., being, as
we have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a free state,
felt some uneasiness on the subject. He did n't like trading
in slaves and souls of men, — of course, he didn't ; but, then,
there were thirty thousand dollars in the case, and that was
rather too much money to be lost for a principle ; and so, after
much considering, and asking advice from those that he knew
would advise to suit him, Brother B. wrote to his lawyer to
dispose of the business in the way that seemed to him the
most suitable, and remit the proceeds.

The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan and
Emmeline were attached, and sent to the depot to await a gen
eral auction on the following morning ; and as they glimmer
faintly upon us in the moonlight which steals through the
grated window, we may listen to their conversation. Both are
weeping, but each quietly, that the other may not hear.

" Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you can't
sleep a little," says the girl, trying to appear calm.

" I have n't any heart to sleep, Em ; I can't ; it 's the last,
night we may be together ! "

" 0, mother, don't say so ! perhaps we shall get sold to-
gether, — who knows 1 "

" If 't was anybody's else case, I should say so, too, Em,"
said the woman ; " but I 'm so 'feard of losin' you that I don't
see anything but the danger."

" Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and
would sell well"

LIFE AMONG THE LO \VI.Y.

"88 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Susan remembered the man's looks and words. With a
deadly sickness at her heart, she remembered how he had
looked at Emmeline's hands, and lifted up her curly hair, and
pronounced her a fir^t-rate article. Susan had been trained as
a Christian, brought up in the daily reading of the Bible, and
had the same horror of her child's being sold to a life of shame
that any other Christian mother might have ; but she had no
hope, — no protection.

" Mother, I think we might do first-rate, if you could get a
place as cook, and I as chambermaid or seamstress, in some
family. I dare say we shall. Let 's both look as bright and
lively as we can, and tell all we can do, and perhaps we shall,"
said Emmeline.

" I want you to brush your hair all back straight, to-mor-
row," said Susan.

'What for, mother? I don't look near so well, that way."

"Yes, but you '11 sell better so."

" I don't see why ! " said the child.

" Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, if they
saw you looked plain and decent, as if you was n't trying to
look handsome. I know their ways better 'n you do," said
Susan.

" Well, mother, then I will."

" And, Emmeline, if we should n't ever see each other again,
after to-morrow, — if I 'm sold way up on a plantation some-
where, and you somewhere else, — always remember how you
've been brought up, anil all Missis has told you ; take your
Bible with you, and your hymn-book ; and if you're faithful
to the Lord, he '11 be faithful to you."

So speaks the poor soul, in sore discouragement; for she knows
that to-morrow any man, however vile and brutal, however god-
less and merciless, if he only has money to pay for her, may
become owner of her daughter, body and soul ; and then, how
is the child to be faithful 1 She thinks of all this, as she holds
her daughter in her arms, and wishes that she were not hand-
some and attractive. It seems almost an aggravation to her to
remember how purely and piously, how much above the ordi-
nary lot, she has been brought up. But she has no resort but
to pray ; and many such prayers to God have gone up from
those same trim, neatly arranged, respectable slave-prisons, —
prayers which God has not forgotten, as a coming day shall
show ; for it is written, " Whoso causeth one of these little ones

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 389

to offend, it were better for him that a mill-stone were hanged
about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the

sea."

The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly, marking
the bars of the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping forms.
The mother and daughter are singing together a wild and mel-
ancholy dirge, common as a funeral hymn among the slaves : —

" 0, where is weeping Mary ?
0, where is weeping Mary !

'Rived in the goodly land.
She is dead and gone to Heaven ;
She is dead and gone to Heaven ;

'Rived in the goodly land."

These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy
sweetness, in an air which seemed like the sighing of earthly
despair after heavenly hope, floated through the dark prison-
rooms with a pathetic cadence, as verse after verse was breathed
out, —

" 0, where are Paul and Silas ?
0, where are Paul and Silas ?
Gone to the goodly land.
They are dead and gone to Heaven ;
They are dead and gone to Heaven ;
'Rived in the goodly land."

Sing on, poor souls ! The night is short, and the morning
will part you forever !

But now it is morning, and everybody is astir ; and the
worthy Mr. Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods is to
be fitted out for auction. There is a brisk lookout on the
toilet ; injunctions passed around to every one to put on their
best face and be spry ; and now all are arranged in a circle for
a last review, before they are marched up to the Bourse.

Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his mouth,
walks around to put farewell touches on his wares.

" How 's this ? " he said, stepping in front of Susan and
Emmeline. "Where's your curls, gal?"

The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the smooth
adroitness common among her class, answers, —

" I was telling her, last night, to put up her hair smooth and
neat, and not havin' it flying about in curls ; looks more re-
spectable so."

" Bother ! " said the man, peremptorily, turning to the girl ;
'' you go right along, and curl yourself real smart ! " He added,

390

TOM'S CA11IX ; OR,

giving a crack to a rattan he held in his hand, " And be back
in quick time, too ! "

" You go and help her," he added, to the mother. ' Them
curls may make a hundred dollars dill'erence in the sale of her."

* * * * *

Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving to
and fro, over the marble pave. On every side uf the circular
aroii were little tribunes, or stations, for the use of speakers and
auctioneers. Two of these, on opposite sides of the area, were
now occupied by brilliant and talented gentlemen, enthusiast!
cally forcing up, in English and French commingled, the bid*
of connoisseurs in their various wares. A third one, on tho

other side, still unoccupied, was surrounded by a group, waiting
the moment of sale to begin. And here we may recognize the
St. Clare servants, - - Tom, Adolph, and others ; and there, too,
Susan and Emmeline, awaiting their turn with anxious and de-
jected faces. Various spectators, intending to purchase, or not
intending, as the case might be, gathered around the group,
handling, examining, and commenting on their various points
and faces with the same freedom that a set of jockeys discuss*
the merits of a horse.

" Hulloa, Alf ! what brings you here 1 " said a young exqui-
site, slapping the shoulder of a sprucely dressed young man
who was examining Adolph through an eye-glass.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

" Well, I was wt: . ind I beard that

lot wa- _-.-._• I thought I 'd just look at his — "

: Si -•'•-- peopl 3 oflt
Impudent as the devil ! " said the other.
ar that I " said the first. " If I get 'em, I '11 soon
have their airs out of them; they'll goon find that the
another kind of r. deal with tl. in W 51 .are.

rd, I '11 buy that fellow. I like the shape of him."
'11 find it '11 take all you 've got to keep him He 's

but my lord will find that he cant be extravagant
with IM. Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times,
and thoroughly dressed down '. I '11 tell you if it don't bring
him to , .>f his way- 1 :11 reform him, up hill and

down. — -. ,u '11 see. I buy him, that 'a flat '. "

. :n had been standing wistfully examining the multitude
of faces thronging around him, for one whom he would wish to
call mar.^:. And if you should ever be under the necefc-
sir, of selecting, out of two hundred men, one who wa.
some your absolute owner and disposer, you would, perhaps,
realize, just as Tom did, how few there were that you would
feel at all comfortable in being made over to. Tom saw abun-
dance of men, — szreat. burly, gruff men : little, chirping, dried
men; lon^'-favored, lank, hard men; anc variet

stubbed-looking, commonplace - ~bo pick up their fellow-
men a= one picks up chips, putting them into the fire or a b>
with equal unconcern, according to their convenience : but he
saw no .St. Cl :

A little before the sale commer -liort, Tjroad, muscular

man. in a checked shirt considerably open at the 1 "i, and
pantaloon? much the worse for dirt and wear, elbowed his way
through the crowd, like one who is going actively intn a bnsi
ness: and. coming up to the group, began to examine them
mati'-ally. From the moment that Tom saw him apivmar-h-

. he felt an immediate and revolting horror at him, that in-
creased as he came near. He was evidently, t: g - -
. . /th. His round, bullet head, 1 - a .ht-^rray
eyes, with their s: . ~ebrows, and stiff, wirv, sun-
hiurn'id hair, were rather unpreposHegsing items, it is to be
fessed : bis large, coarse month was distended with tobacco, the
juice of which, from time to time, he ejected from him with
great decision and explosive force : his hands were immer.

392

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

large, hairy, sunburned, freckled, and very dirty, and garnished
with long nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded
to a very free personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom
by the jaw, and pulled open his mouth to inspect his teeth ;
made him strip up his sleeve, to show his muscle ; turned him
round, made him jump and spring, to show his paces.

" Where was you raised?1' he added, briefly, to these inves«
tigations.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 393

"In Kintuck, Mas'r," said Tom, looking about, as if for
deliverance.

" What have you done ? "

" Had care of Mas'r's farm," said Tom.

"Likely story!" said the other, shortly, as he passed on.
He paused a moment before Dolph ; then spitting a discharge
of tobacco-juice on his well-blacked boots, and giving a con-
temptuous umph, he walked on. Again he stopped before Susan
and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, dirty hand, and drew
the girl towards him ; passed it over her neck and bust, felt her
arms, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her back against
her mother, whose patient face showed the suffering she had
been going through at every motion of the hideous stranger.

The girl was frightened, and began to cry.

" Stop that, you minx ! " said the salesman ; " no whimper-
ing here, — the sale is going to begin." And accordingly the
sale began.

Adolph was knocked off, at a good sum, to the young gentle-
man who had previously stated his intention of buying him ;
and the other servants of the St. Clare lot went to various
bidders.

" Now, up with you, boy ! d' ye hear ? " said the auctioneer
to Tom.

Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round ;
all seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise, — the clatter
of the salesman crying off his qualifications in French and Eng-
lish, the quick fire of French and English bids ; and almost in a
moment came the final thump of the hammer, and the clear
ring on the last syllable of the word " dollars" as the auction-
eer announced his price, and Tom was made over. — He had a
master.

He was pushed from the block ; — the short, bullet-headed
man, seizing him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one
side, saying, in a harsh voice, " Stand there, you! "

Tom hardly realized anything ; but still the bidding went
on, — rattling, clattering, now French, now English. Down
goes the hammer again, — Susan is sold ! She goes down from
the block, stops, looks wistfully back, — her daughter stretches
her hands towards her. She looks with agony in the face of
the man who has bought her, — a respectable, middle-aged
man, of benevolent countenance.

" 0, Mas'r, please do buy my daughter ! "

394

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

" I 'd like to, but I 'm afraid I can't afford it ! " said the
gentleman, looking, with painful interest, as the young girJ
mounted the block, and looked around her with a frightened

and timid glance.

The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless cheek,
her eye has a feverish fire, and her mother groans to see that
she looks more beautiful than she ever saw her before. The
auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates volubly in mingled
French and English, and bids rise in rapid succession.

" I '11 do anything in reason," said the benevolent-looking
gentleman, pressing in and joining with the bids. In a few
moments they have run beyond his purse. He is silent ; the
auctioneer grows warmer ; but bids gradually drop off. It lies
now between an aristocratic old citizen and our bullet-headed
acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, contemptuously
measuring his opponent ; but the bullet-head has the advantage
over him, both in obstinacy and concealed length of purse, and
the controversy lasts but a moment ; the hammer falls, — he
has got the girl, body and soul, unless God help her.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 395

ELr master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation on
the lied river. She is pushed along into the same lot with
Tom and two other men, and goes oti', weeping as she goes.

The henevolent gentleman is sorry; but, then, the thing
happens every day ! One sees girls and mothers crying, at
these sales, always ! it can't be helped, &c. ; and he walks oil',
with his acquisition, in another direction.

Two days after, the lawyer of the Christian firm of B. & Co.,
Kew York, sent on their money to them. On the reverse of
ihat draft, so obtained, let them write these words of the great
Paymaster, to whom they shall make up their account in a
future day : " Wlien he maketh inquisition for blood, heforgetteth
not the cry of the humble ! "

39G UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE MIDDLE PASSAGE.

" Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look upors
iniquity : wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and
boldest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is more right-
eous than he ? " — Hab. i. 13.

the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Red
river, Tom sat, — chains on his wrists, chains on
his feet, and a weight heavier than chains lay on
his heart. All had faded from his sky, — moon
_ _ _ _ and star ; all had passed by him, as the trees and
banks were now passing, to return no more. Kentucky home,
witli wife and children, and indulgent owners ; St. Clare home,
with all its refinements and splendors ; the golden head of
Eva, with its saint-like eyes ; the proud, gay, handsome, seem-
ingly careless, yet ever-kind St. Clare ; hours of ease and indul-
gent leisure, — all gone ! and in place thereof, what remains 1

It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery,
that the negro, sympathetic and assimilative, after acquiring, in
a refined family, the tastes and feelings which form the atmos-
phere of such a place, is not the less liable to become the bond-
slave of the coarsest and most brutal, --just as a chair or table,
which once decorated the superb saloon, comes, at last, battered
and defaced, to the bar-room of some filthy tavern, or some low
haunt of vulgar debauchery. The great difference is, that the
table and chair cannot feel, and the man can ; for even a legal
enactment that he shall be " taken, reputed, adjudged in law,
to be a chattel personal," cannot blot out his soul, with its own
private little world of memories, hopes, loves, fears, and desires.

Mr. Simon Legree, Tom's master, had purchased slaves at
one place and another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight,
and driven them, handcuffed, in couples of two and two, down
to the good steamer Pirate, which lay at the levee, ready for a
trip up the Ked river.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 397

Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he
earne round, with that air of efficiency which ever characterized
him, to take a review of them. Stopping opposite to Tom,
who had been attired for sale in his best broadcloth suit, with
well-starched linen and shining boots, he briefly expressed him-
self as follows : —

" Stand up."

Tom stood up.

" Take off that stock ! " and, as Tom, encumbered by his
fetters, proceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with
no gentle hand, from his neck, and putting it in his pocket.

Legree now turned to Tom's trunk, which, previous to this,
he had been ransacking, and, taking frum it a pair of old pan-
taloons and a dilapidated coat, which Tom had been wont to
put on about his stable-work, he said, liberating Tom's hands
from the handcuffs, and pointing to a recess in among the
boxes, —

" You go there, and put these on."

Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned.

" Take off your boots," said Mr. Legree.

Tom did so.

" There," said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse,
stout shoes, such as were common among the slaves, " put these

on."

In Tom's hurried exchange, he had not forgotten to transfer
his cherished Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so ; for
Mr. Legree, having refitted Tom's handcuffs, proceeded deliber-
ately to investigate the contents of his pockets. He drew out
a silk handkerchief, and put it into his own pocket. Several
little trifles, which Tom had treasured, chiefly because they
had amused Eva, he looked upon with a contemptuous grunt,
and tossed them over his shoulder into the river.

Tom's Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he had
forgotten, he now held up and turned over.

" Humph ! pious, to be sure. So, what 's yer name, — you
belong to the church, eh 1 "

" Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, firmly.

" Well, I '11 soon have that out of you. I have none o' ye,.
bawling, praying, singing niggers on my place ; so remember.
Now, mind yourself," he said, with a stamp and a fierce glance
of his gray eye, directed at Tom, " 7 'm your church now 1
You understand, — you 've got to be as I say."

598

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

Something within the silent black man answered No ! and,
as if repeated by an invisible voice, came the words of an old
prophetic scroll, as Eva had often read them to him, -- " Fear
not ! fur I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by my
name. Thou art MINE ! "

But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he
never shall hear. He only glared for a moment on the down-
cast face of Tom, and walked off. He took Tom's trunk, which
contained a very neat and abundant wardrobe, to the forecastle,
where it was soon surrounded by various hands of the boat.
With much laughing, at the expense of niggers who tried to
be gentlemen, the articles very readily were sold to one and
another, and the empty trunk finally put up at auction. It
was a good joke, they all thought, especially to see how Tom
looked after his things, as they were going this wa.\ and that ;
and then the auction of the trunk, that was funnier than all,
and occasioned abundant witticisms.

This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up again to his
property.

LIFh AMONG THE LOWLY.

399

" Now, Tom, I 've relieved you of any extra baggage, you
see. Take mighty good care of them clothes. It '11 be long
enough 'fore you get more. I go in for making niggers care-
ful ; one suit has to do for one year, on my place."

Simon next walked up to the place where Emmeline was
sitting, chained to another woman.

" Well, my dear," he said, chucking her under the chin,
•' keep up your spirits."

The involuntary look of horror, fright, and aversion with
which the girl regarded him, did not escape his eye. He
frowned tiercely.

" None o' your shines, gal ! you 's got to keep a pleasant
face, when I speak to ye, — d'ye hear"? And yon, you old
yellow poco moonshine ! " he said, giving a shove to the mu-
latto woman to whom Emmeline was chained, " don't you
carry that sort of face ! You 's got to look chipper, I tell ye !

" I say, all on ye," he said, retreating a pace or two back,
"look at me, --look at me, --look me right in the eye, —
straight, now ! " said he, stamping his foot at every pause.

As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to the glar-

ing greenish-gray eye of Simon.

400

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" Now," said he, doubling his great, heavy fist into some-
thing resembling a blacksmith's hammer, " d' ye see this list 1
Heft it ! " he said, bringing it down on Tom's hand. " Look
at these yer bones ! Well, I tell ye this yer list has got as
hard as iron knocking down niggers. I never see the nigger.
yet, I could n't bring down with one crack," said he, bringing
hit; list down so near to the face of Tom that he winked and
drew back. " 1 don't keep none o' yer cussed overseers ; I does
my own overseeing; and 1 tell you tilings is seen to. You 'a
every one on ye got to toe the mark, 1 tell ye ; quick, — straight,

-the moment I speak. That's the way to keep in with me.
Ye won't find no soft spot in me, nowhere. So, now, mind
yerselves ; for I don't show 710 mercy ! "

The women involuntarily drew ?n their breath, and the whole

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 401

gang sat with downcast, dejected faces. Meanwhile, Simon
turned on his heel, and marched up to the bar of the boat
for a dram.

' That 's the way I begin with my niggers," he said, to a
gentlemanly man, who had stood by him during his speech.
" It 's my system to begin strong, — just let 'em know what to
,expect."

" Indeed ! " said the stranger, looking upon him with tin
curiosity of a naturalist studying some out-of-the-way specimen.
' Yes, indeed. I 'm none o' yer gentlemen planters, with
lily lingers, to slop round and be cheated by some old cuss of
an overseer ! Just feel of my knuckles, now ; look at my iist.
Tell ye, sir, the flesh on 't has come jest like a stone, practising
on niggers, -- feel on it."

The stranger applied his fingers to the implement in ques-
tion, and simply said, -

" 'T is hard enough ; and, I suppose," he added, " practice
has made your heart just like it."

" Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty laugh.
" I reckon there 's as little soft in me as in any one going.
Tell you, nobody comes it over me ! Niggers never gets round
me, neither with squalling nor soft soap, -- that 's a fact."

"You have a fine lot there."

" Real," said Simon. " There 's that Tom, they telled me
he was suthin uncommon. I paid a little high for him,'tendin'
him for a driver and a managing chap; only get the notions
out that he 's larnt by bein' treated as niggers never ought to
be, he'll do prime ! The yellow woman I got took in in. I
rayther think she 's sickly, but I shall put her through for what
she 's worth ; she may last a year or two. I don't go for savin'
niggers. Use up, and buy more, 's my way ; — makes you less
trouble, and I 'm quite sure it comes cheaper in the end " ; and
Simon sipped his glass.

" And how long do they generally last] " said the stranger.

" Well, donno ; 'cordin' as their constitution is. Stout fel-
lers last six or seven years ; trashy ones gets worked up in two
or three. I used to, when I fust begun, have considerable
trouble fussin' with 'em and trying to make 'em hold out, -
doctorin' on 'em up when they 's sick, and givin' on 'em clothes
and blankets, and what not, tryin' to keep 'em all sort o' de-
cent and comfortable. Law, 't was n't no sort o' use ; I lost
money on 'em, and 't was heaps o' trouble. Now, you see, I

402 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

just put 'em straight through, sick or well. "When one nig-
ger 's dead, I buy another ; and I rind it conies cheaper and
easier, every way."

The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gen-
tleman, who had been listening to the conversation with re-
pressed uneasiness.

" You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of
southern planters," said he.

" I should hope not," said the young gentleman, with em-
phasis.

" He is a mean, low, brutal fellow ! " said the other.

" And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of human
beings subject to his absolute will, without even a shadow of
protection ; and, low as he is, you cannot say that there are
not many such."

" Well," said the other, " there are also many considerate and
humane men among planters."

" Granted," said the young mm ; " but, in my opinion, it is
you considerate, humane men, that are responsible for all the
brutality and outrage wrought by these wretches ; because, if it
were not for your sanction and influence, the whole system
could not keep foothold for an hour. If there were no planters
except such as that one," said he, pointing with his finger to
Legree, who stood with his back to them, " the whole thing
would go down like a mill-stone. It is your respectability and
hum inity that licenses and protects his brutality."

" You certainly have a high opinion of my good-nature,"
said the planter, smiling ; " hut I advise you not to talk quite
so loud, as there are people on board the boat who might not
be quite so tolerant to opinion as I am. You had better wait
till I get up to my plantation, and there you may abuse us all,
quite at your leisure."

The young gentleman colored and smiled, and the two were
soon busy in a game of backgammon. Meanwhile, another con-
versation was going on in the lower part of the boat, between
Emmeline and the mulatto woman with whom she was con-
fined. As was natural, they were exchanging with each other
some particulars of their history.

' Who did you belong to 1 " said Emmeline.
"Well, my Mas'r was Mr. Ellis, — lived on Levee street
P'r'aps you 've seen the house."

" Was he good to you 1 " said Emmeline.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 403

" Mostly, till he tuk sick. He 's lain sick, off and on, more
than six months, and been ovful oneasy. 'Pears like he warn't
williu' to have nobody rest, day nor night ; and got so curous,
there could n't nobody suit him. 'Pears like he just grew
Grosser, every day ; kep me up nights till I got t'arly beat out,
and could n't keep awake no longer ; and 'cause 1 got to sleep,
one night, Lors, he talk so orl'ul to me, and he tell me he 'd'
sell me to just the hardest master he could tind ; and he 'd
promised me my freedom, too, when he died."

•' Had you any friends] " said Emmeline.

"Yes, my husband, -- he 's a blacksmith. Mas'r gen'ly
hired him out. They took me off so quick, I did n't even
have time to see him ; and I 's got four children. 0, dear
me ! " said the woman, covering her face with her hands.

It is a natural impulse, in every one, when they hear a tale
of distress, to think of something to say by way of consolation.
Emmeline wanted to say something, but she could not think of
anything to say. What was there tc be said ? As by a com-
mon consent, they both avoided, with fear and dread, all men-
tion of the horrible man who was now their master.

True, there is religious trust for even the darkest hour. The
mulatto woman was a member of the Methodist church, and: had
an unenlightened but very sincere spirit of piety. Emmeline
had been educated much more intelligently, --taught to read
and write, and diligently instructed in the Bible, by the care
of a faithful and pious mistress ; yet, would it not try the faith
of the firmest Christians to find themselves abandoned, appar-
ently, of God, in the grasp of ruthless violence 1 How mucr
more must it shake the faith of Christ's poor little ones, weak
in knowledge and tender in years !

The boat moved on, — freighted with its weight of sorrow,
— up the red, muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt, tor-
tuous windings of the Eed river ; and sad eyes gazed wearily
on the steep red-clay banks, as they glided by in dreary same-
ness. At last the boat stopped at a small town, and Legree,
with his party, disembarked.

404

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

CHAPTEE XXXI I,

The dark places of the earth are
full of the habitations of cruelty."

TRAILING wearily behind
a rude wagon, and over a
ruder road, Tom and his as-
sociates faced onward.

In the wajjon was seated
Simon Legree ; and the two
women, slill fettered together,

LIFE AMOSG- THE LOWLY. 405

were stowed away with some baggage in the back part of it ;
and the whole company were seeking Legree's plantation, which
lay a good distance oil'.

It was a wild, forsaken road, now winding through dreary
pine barrens, where the wind whispered mournfully, and now
over log causeways, through long cypress swamps, the doleful
trees rising out of the sliiny, spongy ground, hung with long
wreaths of funereal black moss, while ever and anon the loath-
some form of the moccasin snake might be seen sliding among
broken stumps and shattered branches that lay here and there,
rotting in the water.

It is disconsolate enough, this riding, to the stranger, who,
with well-nlled pocket and well-appointed horse, threads the
lonely way on some errand of business ; but wilder, drearier,
to the man enthralled, whom every weary step bears further
from all that man loves and prays for.

So one should have thought, that witnessed the sunken and
dejected expression on those dark faces ; the wistful, patient
weariness with which those sad eyes rested on object after ob-
ject that passed them in their sad journey.

Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasionally
pulling away at a flask of spirit, which he kept in his pocket.

" I say, you ! " he said, as he turned back and caught a
glance at the dispirited faces behind him ! " Strike up a song,
boys, — come ! "

The men looked at each other, and the " come " was repeated,
with a smart crack of the whip which the driver carried in his
hands. Tom began a Methodist hymn, —

" Jerusalem, my happy home,

Name ever dear to me !
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall — ''

"Shut up, you black cuss!" roared Legree; "did ye think
I wanted any o' yer infernal old Methodism 1 I say, tune up,
now, something real rowdy, -- quick ! "

One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning
songs, common among the slaves.

" Mas'r see'd me cotch a, coon,

High boys, high !
He laughed to split, — d' ye see the moon,

Ho ! ho! ho! hoys, ho !
Ho! yolhi — e! oh!"

406 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleas-
ure, generally hitting on rhyme, without much attempt at
reason ; and all the party took up the chorus, at intervals, —

" Ho ! ho ! lio ! boys, ho !
High — e — oil ! high — e — oh ! "

It was sung very boisterously, and with a forced attempt
at merriment ; but no wail of despair, no words of impas-
sioned prayer, could have had such a depth of woe in them
as the wild notes of the chorus. As if the poor, dumb heart,
threatened, -- prisoned, — took refuge in that inarticulate sanc-
tuary of music, and found there a language in which to breathe
its prayer to God ! There was a prayer in it, which Simon
could not hear. He only heard the boys singing noisily,
and was well pleased ; he was making them " keep up their
spirits."

" Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, and
laying his hand on her shoulder, " we 're almost home ! "

When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified ;
but when he laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now did,
she felt as if she had rather he would strike her. The expres-
sion of his eyes made her soul sick, and her flesh creep. lu-
voluntarily she clung closer to the mulatto woman by her side,
as if she were her mother.

" You did n't ever wear ear-rings," he said, taking hold of
her small ear with his coarse fingers.

" No, Mas'r ! " said Emmeline, trembling and looking
down.

" Well, I '11 give you a pair, when we get home, if you 're a
good girl. You need n't be so frightened ; I don't mean to
make you work very hard. You '11 have fine times with me,
and live like a lady, — only be a good girl."

Legree had been drinking to that degree that he was inclin-
ing to be very gracious ; and it was about this time that the
enclosures of the plantation rose to view. The estate had
formerly belonged to a gentleman of opulence and taste, who
had bestowed some considerable attention to the adornment of
his grounds. Having died insolvent, it had been purchased,
at a bargain, by Legree, who used it, as he did everything
else, merely as an implement for money-making. The place
had that ragged, forlorn appearance, which is always produced

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 407

by the evidence that the care of the former owner has been left
to go to utter decay.

What was once a smooth-shaven lawn before the house
dotted here and there with ornamental shrubs, was now cov-
ered with frowsy tangled grass, with horse-posts set up, hen
and there, in it, where the turf was stamped away, and the
ground littered with broken pails, cobs of corn, and other slov
enly remains. Here and there, a mildewed jessamine or honey-
suckle hung raggedly from some ornamental support, whicl
had been pushed to one side by being used as a horse-posl
What once was a large garden was now all grown over with
weeds, through which, here and there, some solitary exotic
reared its forsaken head. What had been a conservatory had
now no window-sashes, and on the mouldering shelves stood
some dry, forsaken flower-pots, with sticks in them, whose
dried leaves showed they had once been plants.

The wagon rolled up a weedy gravel walk, under a noble
avenue of China trees, whose graceful forms and ever-springing
foliage seemed to be the only things there that neglect could
not daunt or alter, — like noble spirits, so deeply rooted in
goodness, as to flourish and grow stronger amid discouragement
and decay.

The house had been large and handsome. It was built in
a manner common at the south ; a wide veranda of two sto-
ries running round every part of the house, into which every
outer door opened, the lower tier being supported by brick
pillars.

But the place looked desolate and uncomfortable ; some win-
dows stopped up with boards, some with shattered panes, and
shutters hanging by a single hinge, — all telling of coarse neg-
lect and discomfort.

Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, gar-
nished the ground in all directions ; and three or four ferocious-
looking dogs, roused by the sound of the wagon-wheels, came
tearing out, and were with difficulty restrained from laying hold
of Tom and his companions, by the effort of the ragged servants
who came after them.

"Ye see what ye'd get!" said Legree, caressing the dogs
with grim satisfaction, and turning to Tom and his companions.
" Ye see what ye 'd get, if ye try to run off. These yer dogs
has been raised to track niggers; and they 'd jest as soon chaw
one on ye up as eat their supper. So, mind yerself ! How

408

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; Oil,

now. Sambo ! " he said, to a ragged fellow, without any brim
ho his hat, who was officious in his attentions. " How have

things been going 1 "

" Fust-rate, Mas'r."

" Quimbo," said Legree to another, who was making zealous
demonstrations to attract his attention, " ye minded what I
Celled ye 1 "

" Guess I did, did n't 1 1 "

These two colored men were the two principal hands on the
plantation. Legree had trained them in savageness and bru-
tality as systematically as he had his bull-dogs ; and, by long-
practice in hardness and cruelty, brought their whole nature to
about the same range of capacities. It is a common remark,
and one that is thought to militate strongly against the char-
acter of the race, that the negro overseer is always more tyran-
nical and cruel than the white one. This is simply saying that
the negro mind has been more crushed and debased than the
white. It is no more true of this race than of every oppressed

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

409

race, the world over. The slave is always a tyrant, if he can
get a chance to be one.

Legree, like some potentates we read of in history, governed
his plantation by a sort of resolution of forces. Sambo and
Quimbo cordially hated each other ; the plantation hands, one
and all, cordially hated them ; and, by playing off one against
another, he was pretty sure, through one or the other of th'
three parties, to get informed of whatever was on foot in th.
place.

Nobody can live entirely without social intercourse ; and
Legree encouraged his two black satellites to a kind of coarse
familiarity with him, — a familiarity, however, at any moment
liable to get one or the other of them into trouble ; for, on the
slightest provocation, one of them always stood ready, at a nod,
to be a minister of his vengeance on the other.

As they stood there now by Legree, they seemed an apt illus-
tration of the fact that brutal men are lower even than animals.
Their coarse, dark, heavy features ; their great eyes, rolling en-
viously on each other; their barbarous, guttural, half-brute
intonation ; their dilapidated garments fluttering in the wind,
-weie all in admirable keeping with the vile and unwhole-
some character nf everything about the place.

" Here, you Sambo," said Legree, "take these yer boys down
to the quarters ; and here 's a gal I 've got for you," said he, as
he separated the mulatto woman from Emmeline, and pushed
her towards him ; -- " I promised to bring you one, you know."

410

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

The woman gave a sudden start, and, drawing "back, said sud-
denly, -

" 0, Mas'r ! I left my old man in New Orleans."
" What of that, you - - ; won't you want one here ? _ None
o' your words, — go 'long ! " said Legree, raising his whip.

" Come, mistress," he said to Emmeline, " you go in here
with me."

A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at the
window of the house ; and, as Legree opened the door, a female

FIELD HANDS COMING IN

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 411

voice said something, in a quick, imperative tone. Tom, who
was looking, with anxious interest, after Emmeline, as she went
in, noticed this, and heard Legree answer, angrily, " You may
hold your tongue ! I '11 do as I please, for all you ! "

Tom heard no more ; for he was soon following Sambo to the
quarters. The quarters was a little sort of street of rude shan-
ties, in a row, in a part of the plantation, far off from the house.
They had a forlorn, brutal, forsaken air. Tom's heart sunk
vhen he saw them. He had been comforting himself with the
/hought of a cottage, rude, indeed, but one which he might
make neat and quiet, and where he might have a shelf for his
Bible, and a place to be alone out of his laboring hours. He
looked into several ; they were mere rude shells, destitute of
any species of furniture, except a heap of straw, foul with dirt,
spread confusedly over the floor, which was merely the bare
ground, trodden hard by the tramping of innumerable feet.

" Which of these will be mine ] " said he, to Sambo, submis-
sively.

" Dunno ; ken turn in here, I s'pose," said Sambo ; " spects
thar 's room for another thar ; thar 's a pretty smart heap o'
niggers to each on 'em, now ; sure, I dunno what I 's to do with

more."

It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of the
shanties came nocking home, -- men and women, in soiled and
tattered garments, surly and uncomfortable, and in no mood to
look pleasantly on new-comers. The small village was alive
with no inviting sounds ; hoarse, guttural voices contending at
the handmills where their morsel of hard corn was yet to be
ground into meal, to fit it for the cake that was to constitute
their only supper. From the earliest dawn of the day, they had
been in the fields, pressed to work under the driving lash of the
overseers ; for it was now in the very heat and hurry of the
season, a'nd no means was left untried to press every one up
to the top of their capabilities. "True," says the negligent
lounger; "picking cotton isn't hard work." Is n't it1? And
it is n't much inconvenience, either, to have one drop of water
fall on your head ; yet the worst torture of the inquisition is
produced by drop after drop, drop after drop, falling moment
after moment, with monotonous succession, on the same spot ; and
work, in itself not hard, becomes so, by being pressed, hour after
hour, with unvarying, unrelenting sameness, with not even the con-

412 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

eciousness of free-will to take from its tediousness. Torn looked
in vain among the gang, as they poured along, for companion-
able faces. He saw only sullen, scowling, imbruted men, and
feeble, discouraged women, or women that were not women, — •
the strong pushing away the weak, — the gross, unrestricted
animal selhshness of human beings, of whom nothing good was
expected and desired; and who, treated in every way like
brutes, had sunk as nearly to their level as it was possible for
human beings to do. To a late hour in the night the sound
of the grinding was protracted ; for the mills were few in
number compared with the grinders, and the weary and feeble
ones were driven back by the strong, and came on last in their
turn.

" Ho yo ! " said Sambo, coming to the mulatto woman, and
throwing down a bag of corn before her ; " what a cuss yo'
name 1 "

" Lucy," said the woman.

" Wai, Lucy, yo' my woman now. Yo' grind dis yer corn,
and get my supper baked, ye har1?"

" I an't your woman, and I won't be ! " said the woman, with
the sharp, sudden courage of despair ; " you go 'long ! "

" I '11 kick yo', then ! " said Sambo, raising his foot threaten-
ingly.

" Ye may kill me, if ye choose, — the sooner the better !
Wish 't I was dead ! " said she.

" I say, Sambo, you go to spilin the hands, I '11 tell Mas'r o*
you," said Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from which he
had viciously driven two or three tired women, who were wait-
ing to grind their corn.

"And I '11 tell him ye won't let the women come to the
mills, yo' old nigger ! " said Sambo. " Yo' jes keep to yo'

own row."

Tom -was hungry with his day's journey, a^d almost faint for
want of food.

" Thar, yo' ! " said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag,
which contained a peck of corn ; " thar, nigger, grab, take car'
on 't, — yo' won't get no more, dis yer week."

Tom waited till a late hour, to get a place at the mills ; and
then, moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he
eaw trying to grind their corn there, he ground for them, put
together the decaying brands of the lire, where many had baked
cakes before them, and then went about getting his own supper.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 413

Tt was a new kind of work there, — a deed of charity, small as
it was ; but it woke an answering touch in their hearts, — an
expression of womanly kindness came over their hard faces ;
they mixed his cake for him, and tended its baking ; and Tom
sat down by the light of the tire, and drew out his Bible, — for
he had need of comfort.

" What 's that ? " said one of the women.

" A Bible," said Tom.

" Good Lord ! han't seen un since I was in Kentuck."

" Was you raised in Kentuck 1 " said Tom, with interest.

" Yes, and well raised, too ; never spected to come to dis
yer ! " said the woman, sighing.

" What 's dat ar book, any way ? " said the other woman.

" Why, the Bible."

" Laws a me ! what 's dat ? " said the woman.

" Do tell ! you never hearn on 't ? " said the other woman.
" I used to har Missis a readin' on 't, sometimes, in Keutuck ;
but, laws o' me ! we don't har nothin' here but crackin' and

Bwarin."

" Eead a piece, anyways ! " said the first woman, curiously,
seeing Tom attentively poring over it.

Tom read, — " Come unto ME, all ye that labor and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

" Them 's good words, enough," said the woman ; " who says
'em 1 "

414 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

"The Lord," said Tom.

" I jest wish I know'd whar to find him," said the woman
" I would go ; 'pears like I never should get rested agin. Mj
flesh is fairly sore, and I tremble all over, every day, and
Sambo 's allers a jawin' at me, 'cause I does n't pick faster ; and
nights it 's most midnight 'fore I can get my supper ; and den
'pears like I don't turn over and shut my eyes, 'fore I hear de
horn blow to get up, and at it agin in de mornin'. If I knew
whar de Lord was, I 'd tell him."

" He 's here, he 's everywhere," said Tom.

" Lor, you au't gwine to make me believe dat ar ! I know
de Lord an't here," said the woman ; " 't an't no use talking,
though. I 's jest gwine to camp down, and sleep while I ken."

The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, by
the smouldering tire, that flickered up redly in his face.

The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and
looked down, calm and silent, as God looks on the scene of
misery and oppression, — looked calmly on the lone black man,
as he sat, with his arms folded, and his Bible on his knee.

" Is God HERE '} " Ah, how is it possible for the untaught
heart to keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule,
and palpable, unrebuked injustice ] In that simple heart
waged a fierce conflict : the crushing sense of wrong, the fore-
shadowing of a whole life of future misery, the wreck of all
past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul's sight, like dead
corpses of wife, and «hild, and friend, rising from the dark
wave, and surging in the face of the half-drowned mariner !
Ah, was it easy here to believe and hold fast the great pass-
word of Christian faith, " that God is, and is the REWARDER
of them that diligently seek him"?

Tom rose, disconsolate, and stumbled into the cabin that had
been allotted to him. The floor was already strewn with Aveary
sleepers, and the foul air of the place almost repelled him ; but
the heavy night-dews were chill, and his limbs weary, and,
wrapping about him a tattered blanket, which formed his only
bed-clothing, he stretched himself in the straw and fell asleep.

In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ear ; he was sitting
on the mossy seat in the garden by Lake Pontchartrain, and
Eva, with her serious eyes bent downward, was reading to him
from the Bible ; and he heard her read, —

" When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee,
and the rivers they shall not overflow thee ; when thou walkest

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 415

through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall th<
tlame kindle upon thee ; for I am the Lord thy God, the Holy
One of Israel, thy Saviour."

Gradually the words seemed to melt and fade, as in a divine
music ; the child raised her deep eyes, and fixed them lovingly
on him, and rays of warmth and comfort seemed to go from
them to his heart ; and, as if wafted on the music, she seemed
to rise on shining wings, from which flakes and spangles of
gold fell off like stars, and she was gone.

Tom woke. Was it a dream 1 Let it pass for one. But
who shall say that that sweet young spirit, which in life so
yearned to comfort and console the distressed, was forbidden oi
God to assume this ministry after death 1

11 It is a beautiful belief,

That ever round our head

Are hovering, on angel wings,

The spirits of the dead."

416 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTEE XXXIII.

CASSY.

" And behold, the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no coiu-
forter ; and on the side of their oppressors there was power, but they had no
comforter." — Eccl. iv. 1.

took but a short time to familiarize Tom with all
that was to be hoped or feared in his new way of
life. He was an expert and efficient workman in
whatever he undertook, and was, both from habit
and principle, prompt and faithful. Quiet and
peaceable in his disposition, he hoped, by unremitting diligence,
to avert from himself at least a portion of the evils of his
condition. He- saw enough of abuse and misery to make him
sick and weary ; but he determined to toil on, with religious
patience, committing himself to Him that judgeth righteously,
not without hope that some way of escape might yet be opened
to him.

Legree took silent note of Tom's availability. He rated
him as a first-class hand ; and yet he felt a secret dislike to
him, — the native antipathy of bad to good. He saw, plainly,
that when, as was often the case, his violence and brutality fell
on the helpless, Tom took notice of it ; for so subtle is the
atmosphere of opinion, that it will make itself felt, without
words ; and the opinion even of a slave may annoy a master.
Tom in various ways manifested a tenderness of feeling, a com-
miseration for his fellow-sufferers, strange and new to them,
which was watched with a jealous eye by Legree. He had
purchased Tom with a view of eventually making him a sort of
overseer, with whom he might, at times, intrust his affairs, in
short absences ; and, in his view, the first, second, and third
requisite for that place was hardness. Legree made up his
mind, that, as Tom was not hard to his hand, he would harden
him forthwith ; and some few weeks after Tom had been on
the place, he determined to commence the process.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 417

One morning, when the hands were mustered for the field,
Tom noticed, with surprise, a new-comer among them, whose
appearance excited his attention. It was a woman, tall and
slenderly formed, with remarkably delicate hands and feet, and
dressed in neat and respectable garments. By the appearance
of her face, she might have been between thirty-five and forty ;
ind it was a face that, once seen, could never be forgotten, —
me of those that, at a glance, seem to convey to us an idea
.if a wild, painful, and romantic history. Her forehead was
high, and her eyebrows marked with beautiful clearness. Her
straight, well-formed nose, her finely cut mouth, and the grace-
ful contour of her head and neck, showed that she must once
have been beautiful ; but her face was deeply wrinkled with
lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endurance. Her com-
plexion was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin, her feature*
sharp, and her whole form emaciated. But her eye was the
most remarkable feature, — so large, so heavily black, over-
shadowed by long lashes of equal darkness, and so wildly,
mournfully despairing. There was a fierce pride and defiance
in every line of her face, in every curve of the flexible lip, in
every motion of her body ; but in her eye was a deep, settled
night of anguish, — an expression so hopeless and unchanging
as to contrast fearfully with the scorn and pride expressed by
her whole demeanor.

Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know.
The first he did know, she was walking by his side, erect and
proud, in the dim gray of the dawn. To the gang, however,
she was known ; for there was much looking and turning of
heads, and a smothered yet apparent exultation among the
miserable, ragged, half-starved creatures by whom she was sur-
rounded.

" Got to come to it, at last, — glad of it ! " said one.

" He ! he ! he ! " said another : " you '11 know how good it is,
Misse ! "

" We '11 see her work ! "

" Wonder if she '11 get a cutting up, at night, like the rest
of us ! "

" I 'd be glad to see her down for a flogging, I '11 bound ! "
said another.

The woman took no notice of these taunts, but walked on,
with the same expression of angry scorn, as if she heard
nothing. Tom had always lived among refined and cultivated

418 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN j OR,

people, and he felt intuitively, from her air and bearing, that
she belonged to that class ; but how or why she could be fallen
to those degrading circumstances, he could not tell. The
woman neither looked at him nor spoke to him, though, all
the way to the field, she kept close at his side.

Tom was soon busy at his work ; but, as the woman was at
no great distance from him, he often glanced an eye to her, at
her work. He saw, at a glance, that a native adroitness anc
handiness made the task to her an easier one than it proved to
many. She picked very fast and very clean, and with an air
of scorn, as if she despised both the work and the disgrace and
humiliation of the circumstances in which she was placed.

In the course of the day, Tom was working near the mulatto
woman who had been bought in the same lot with himself. She
was evidently in a condition of great suffering, and Tom often
heard her praying, as she wavered and trembled, and seemed
about to fall down. Tom silently, as he came near to her, trans-
ferred several handfuls of cotton from his own sack to hers.

'• 0, don't, don't ! " said the woman, looking surprised ; " it '11
get you into trouble."

Just then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special
spite against this woman ; and, flourishing his "whip, said, in
brutal, guttural tones, "What dis yer, Luce, -- foolin' a"?"
and, with the word, kicking the woman with his heavy cow-
hide shoe, he struck Tom across the face with his whip.

Tom silently resumed his task ; but the woman, before at
the last point of exhaustion, fainted.

" I '11 bring her to ! " said the driver, with a brutal grin.
" I '11 give her something better than camphire ! " and, taking
a pin from his coat-sleeve, he buried it to the head in her flesh.
The woman groaned, and half rose. " Get up, you beast, and
work, will yer, or I '11 show yer a trick more ! "

The woman seemed stimulated, for a few moments, to an
unnatural strength, and worked with desperate eagerness.

" See that you keep to dat ar," said the man, " or yer '11
wish yer 's dead to-night, I reckin ! "

" That I do now ! " Tom heard her say ; and again he heard
her say. " 0, Lord, how long ! 0, Lord, why don't you help
us?"

At the risk of all that he might suffer, Tom came forward
again, and put all the cotton in his sack into the woman's.

" O, you must n't ! you donno what they '11 do to ye ! " said
the woman.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 419

" I can bar it ! " said Tom, " better 'n you " ; and he was at
his place again. It passed in a moment.

Suddenly, the stranger woman whom we have described,
and who had, in the course of her work, come near enough to
hear Tom's last words, raised her heavy black eyes, and fixed
them, for a second, on him ; then, taking a quantity of cotton
from her basket, she placed it in his.

" You know nothing about this place," she said, " or you
would n't have done that. When you 've been here a month,;
you '11 be done helping anybody ; you '11 find it hard enough
to take care of your own skin ! "

" The Lord forbid, Missis ! " said Tom, using instinctively
to his field companion the respectful form proper to the high-
bred with whom he had lived.

" The Lord never visits these parts," said the woman, bit-
terly, as she went nimbly forward with her work ; and again
the scornful smile curled her lips.

But the action of the woman had been seen by the driver,
across the field ; and. flourishing his whip, he came up to her.

" What ! what ! " he said to the woman, with an air of tri-
umph, " YOU a foolin' 1 Go along ! yer under me now, — mind
yourself, or yer '11 cotch it ! "

A glance like sheet-lightning suddenly flashed from those
black eyes ; and, facing about, with quivering lip and dilated
nostrils, she drew herself up, and fixed a glance, blazing with
rage and scorn, on the driver.

•' Dog ! " she said, " touch me, if you dare ! I 've power
enough, yet, to have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut to
inches ! I 've only to say the word ! "

" What de devil you here for, den ! " said the man, evidently
cowed, and sullenly retreating a step or two. " Did n't mean
no harm, Misse Gassy ! "

" Keep your distance, then ! " said the woman. And, in truth,
the man seemed greatly inclined to attend to something at the
other end of the field, and started off in quick time.

The woman suddenly turned to her work, and labored with
a despatch that was perfectly astonishing to Tom. She seemed
to work by magic. Before the day was through, her basket
was filled, crowded down, and piled, and she had several times
put largely into Tom's. Long after dusk, the whole weary
train, with their baskets on their heads, defiled up to the
building appropriated to the string and weighing the cotton.
Legree was there, busily conversing with the two drivers.

420

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

" Dat ar Tom 's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble ;
kept a puttin' into Lucy's basket. — One o' these yer dat will
get all der niggers to feelin' 'bused, if Mas'r don't watch him ! "
said Sambo.

" Hey-dey ! The black cuss ! " said Legree. " He '11 have
to get a breakin' in, won't he, boys 1 "

Both negroes grinned a horrid grin, at this intimation.

" Ay, ay ! let Mas'r Legree alone, for breakin' in ! J)e debil
heself could n't beat Mas'r at dat ! " said Quimbo.

" Wai, boys, the best way is to give him the Hogging to do,
till he gets over his notions. Break him in ! "

" Lord, Mas'r '11 have hard work to get dat out o' him ! "

" It '11 have to come out of him, though ! " said Legree, as
he rolled his tobacco in his mouth.

" Now, dar 's Lucy, — de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on
de place ! " pursued Sambo.

" Take care, Sam ; I shall begin to think what 's the reason
for your spite agin Lucy."

" Well, Mas'r knows she sot herself up agin Mas'r, and
would n't have me, when he telled her to."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 421

" I 'J a flogged her into 't," said Legree, spitting, " only
there 's such a press o' work, it don't seem wuth a while to up-
set her jist now. She 's slender ; but these yer slender gals
will bear half killin' to get their own way ! "

" Wai, Lucy was real aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round ;
would n't do nothin', — and Tom he tuck up for her."

" He did, eh ! Wai, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of
(flogging her. It '11 be a good practice for him, and he won't
put it on to the gal like you devils, neither."

" Ho, ho ! haw ! haw ! haw ! " laughed both the sooty
wretches ; and the diabolical sounds seemed, in truth, a not
unapt expression of the fiendish character which Legree gave
them.

" Wai, but, Mas'r, Tom and Misse Gassy, and dey among
'em, filled Lucy's basket. I ruther guess der weight 's in it,
Mas'r ! "

" / do the weighing ! " said Legree, emphatically.

Both the drivers again laughed their diabolical laugh.

" So ! " he added, " Misse Gassy did her clay's work."

" She picks like de debil and all his angels ! "

" She 's got 'em all in her, I believe ! " said Legree ; and
growling a brutal oath, he proceeded to the weighing-room.

Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures wound their way into
the room, and, with crouching reluctance, presented their bas-
kets to be weighed.

Legree noted on a slate, on the side of which was pasted a
list of names, the amount.

Tom's basket was weighed and approved ; and he looked,
with an anxious glance, for the success of the woman be had
befriended.

Tottering with weakness, she came forward, and delivered
her basket. It was of full weight, as Legree well perceived ;
but, affecting anger, he said, —

" What, you lazy beast ! short again ! stand aside, you '11
catch it, pretty soon ! "

The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down on
a board.

The person who had been called Misse Gassy now came for-
ward, and, with a haughty, negligent air, delivered her basket.
As she delivered it, Legree looked in her eyes with a sneering
yet inquiring glance.

422 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her lips moved
slightly, and she said something in French. What it was, no
one knew ; but Legree's face became perfectly demoniacal in
its expression, as she spoke ; he half raised his hand, as if to
strike, — a gesture which she regarded with fierce disdain, as
she turned and walked away.

" And now," said Legree, "come here, you Tom. You see,
I telled ye I did n't buy ye jest for the common work ; I
mean to promote ye, and make a driver of ye ; and to-night ye
may jest as well begin to get yer hand in. Now, ye jest take
this yer gal and flog her ; ye 've seen enough on 't to know
how."

" I beg Mas'r's pardon," said Tom ; " hopes Mas'r won't set
me at that. It 's what I an't used to, — never did, — and
can't do, no way possible."

•' Ye '11 larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did
know, before I 've done with ye ! " said Legree, taking up a
cowhide, and striking Tom a heavy blow across the cheek, and
following up the infliction by a shower of blows.

" There ! " he said, as he stopped to rest ; " now will ye tell
me ye can't do it 1 "

" Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, putting up his hand, to wipe the
blood, that trickled down his face. " I 'm willin' to work
night and day, and work while there 's life and breath in me ;
but this yer thing I can't feel it right to do ; — and, Mas'r, I
never shall do it, — never ! "

Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and a habitually
respectful manner, that had given Legree an idea that he would
be cowardly, and easily subdued. When he spoke these last
words, a thrill of amazement went through every one ; the
poor woman clasped her hands, and said, " 0 Lord ! " and
every one involuntarily looked at each other and drew in
their breath, as if to prepare for the storm that was about to
burst.

Legree looked stupefied and confounded ; but at last burst
forth, -

" What ! ye blasted black beast ! tell me ye don't think it
right to do what I tell ye ! "What have any of you cussed
cattle to do with thinking what 's right 1 I '11 put a stop to
it ! Why, what do ye think ye are 1 May be ye think ye 'r
a gentleman, master Tom, to be a telling your master what 's
right, and what an't ! So you pretend it 's wrong to flog the
gal ! "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 423

•• I think so, Mas'r," said Tom ; " the poor crittur 's sick and
feeble ; 't would be downright cruel, and it '-s what I never will
do, nor begin to. Mas'r, if you mean to kill me, kill me ; but,
as to my raising my hand agin any one here, I never shall, —
I '11 die first ! "

Tom spoke in a mild voice, but with a decision that could
not be mistaken. Legree shook with anger ; his greenish eyes
glared fiercely, and his very whiskers seemed to curl with pas-
sion ; but, like some ferocious beast, that plays with its victim
before he devours it, he kept back his strong impulse to pro-
ceed to immediate violence, and broke out into bitter raillery.

" Well, here 's a pious dog, at last, let down among us sin-
ners ! — a saint, a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us sinners
about our sins ! Powerful holy crittur, he must be ! Here, you
rascal, you make believe to be so pious, — did n't you never
hear, out of yer Bible, ' Servants, obey yer masters ' ] An't I
yer master 1 Did n't I pay down twelve hundred dollars, cash,
for all there is inside yer old cussed black shell 1 An't yer
mine, now, body and soul 1 " he said, giving Tom a violent
kick with his heavy boot ; " tell me ! "

In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal
oppression, this question shot a gleam of joy and triumph
through Tom's soul. He suddenly stretched himself up, and,
looking earnestly to heaven, while the tears and blood that
flowed down his face mingled, he exclaimed, —

" No ! no ! no ! my soul an't yours, Mas'r ! You have n't
bought it, — ye can't buy it ! It 's been bought and paid for,
by one that is able to keep it; — no matter, no matter, you
can't harm me ! "

" I can't ! " said Legree, with a sneer ; " we '11 see, — we '11
see ! Here, Sambo, Quimbo, give this dog such a breakin' in
as he won't get over, this month ! "

The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, with
fiendish exultation in their faces, might have formed no unapt
personification of the powers of darkness. The poor woman
screamed with apprehension, and all rose, as by a general im-
pulse, while they dragged him. unresisting from the place.

424 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE QUADROON'S STORY.

" And behold the tears of such as are oppressed; and on the side of then
oppressors there was power. Wherefore I praised the dead that are already
dead more than the living that are yet alive." — Ecd. iv. 1.

was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and
bleeding alone, in an old forsaken room of the gin-
house, among pieces of broken machinery, piles of
damaged cotton, and other rubbish which had
there accumulated.

The night was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed
with myriads of mosquitoes, which increased the restless torture
of his wounds ; whilst a burning thirst — a torture beyond all
others — filled up the uttermost measure of physical anguish.

" 0, good Lord ! Do look down, — give me the victory ! —
give me the victory over all ! " prayed poor Tom, in his an-
guish.

A footstep entered the room, behind him, and the light of a
lantern flashed on his eyes.

" Who 's there 1 0, for the Lord's massy, please give me
some water ! "

The woman Gassy — for it was she — set down her lantern,
and, pouring water from a bottle, raised his head, and gave him
drink. Another and another cup were drained, with feverish
eagerness.

" Drink all ye want," she said ; " I knew how it would be.
It is n't the "first time I 've been out in the night, carrying
water to such as you."

" Thank you, Missis," said Tom, when he had done drinking.

" Don't oall me Missis ! I 'm a miserable slave, like your,
self, — a lower one than you can ever be ! " said she, bitterly ;
" but now," said she, going to the door, and dragging in a
small pallaise, over which she had spread linen cloths wet with
"old water, " try, my poor fellow, to roll yourself on to this."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

425

Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time in
accomplishing this movement ; but, when done, he felt a sensi-
ble relief from the cooling application to his wounds.

The woman, whom long practice with the victims of brutal-
ity had made familiar with many healing arts, went on to make
many applications to Tom's wounds, by means of which he v
soon somewhat relieved.

" Now," said the woman, when she had raised his head on a
roll of damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, " there 's the
best I can do for you."

Tom thanked her; and the woman, sitting down on the
floor, drew up her knees, and embracing them with her arms,
looked fixedly before her, with a bitter and painful expres-
sion of countenance. Her bonnet fell back, and long wavy
Btreams of black hair fell around her singular and melancholy
face.

" It 's no use, my poor fellow ! " she broke out, at last, " it 'a
of no use, this you've been trying to do. You were a brave

426 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

fellow, — you had the right on your side ; but it 's all in vain,
and out of the question, for you to struggle. You are in the
devil's hands ; — he is the strongest, and you must give up ! "

Give up ! and had not human weakness and physical agonj
whispered that, before 1 Tom started ; for the bitter woman,
with her wild eyes and melancholy voice, seemed to him an
embodiment of the temptation with which he had been wrest-
ling. \

" 0, Lord ! 0, Lord ! " he groaned, " how can I give up ? '

"There's no use calling on the Lord, — he never hears.",
said the woman, steadily ; " there is n't any God, I believe ; or,
if there is, he 's taken sides against us. All goes against us,
heaven and earth. Everything is pushing us into hell. Why
should n't we go 1 "

Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark, atheistic
words.

"You see," said the woman, "you don't know anything
about it ; — I do. I 've been on this place five years, body and
soul, under this man's foot ; and I hate him as I do the devil !
Here you are, on a lone plantation, ten miles from any other,
in the swamps ; not a white person here, who could testify, if
you were burned alive, --if you were scalded, cut into inch-
pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up and whipped to
death. There 's no law here, of God or man, that can do you,
or any one of us, the least good ; and, this man ! there 's no
earthly thing that he 's too good to do. I could make any
one's hair rise, and their teeth chatter, if I should only tel)
what I 've seen and been knowing to, here, — and it 's no USP
resisting ! Did I want to live with him 1 Was n't I a woman
delicately bred ; and he — God in heaven ! what was he, and
is he ] And yet, I 've lived with him, these five years, and
cursed every moment of my life, — night and day ! And now,
he's got a new one, — a young thing, only fifteen, and she
brought up, she says, piously. Her good mistress taught her
to read the Bible ; and she 's brought her Bible here — to hell
with her!" — and the woman laughed a wild and doleful
laugh, that rung, with a strange, supernatural sound, through
the old ruined shed.

Tom folded his hands ; all was darkness and horror.

" 0 Jesus ! Lord Jesus ! have you quite forgot us poor crit-
ters T' burst forth, at last ; — " help, Lord, I perish!'"

The woman sternly continued : -

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 427

" And what are these miserable low dogs you work with,
that you should suffer on their account 1 Every one of then-
would turn against you, the first time they got a chance. Thej
are all of 'em as low and cruel to each other as they can be ;
there 's no use in your suffering to keep from hurting them."

" Poor critturs ! " said Tom, — " what made 'em cruel] —
and, if I give out, I shall get used to 't, and grow, little by lit-
tle, just like 'em ! No, no, Missis ! I 've lost everything, —
wife, and children, and home, and a kind Mas'r, — and he
would have set me free, if he 'd only lived a week longer ;
I 've lost everything in this world, and it 's clean gone, forever,
— and now I cant lose Heaven, too ; no, I can't get to be
wicked, besides all ! "

"But it can't be that the Lord will lay sin to our account,"
said the woman ; " he won't charge it to us, when we 're forced
to it ; he '11 charge it to them that drove us to it."

" Yes," said Tom ; " but that won't keep us from growing
wicked. If I get to be as hard-hearted as that ar Sambo, and
as wicked, it won't make much odds to me how I come so ; it 's
the bein' so, — that ar 's what I 'm a dreadin'."

The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if a new
thought had struck her ; and then, heavily groaning, said, —

" O God a' mercy ! you speak the truth ! Oh ! — Oh ! — Oh ! "
- and, with groans, she fell on the floor, like one crushed and
writhing under the extremity of mental anguish.

There was a silence, awhile, in which the breathing of both
parties could be heard, when Tom faintly said, " O, please,
Missis ! "

The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to its
usual stern, melancholy expression.

" Please, Missis, I saw 'em throw my coat in that ar' corner,
and in my coat-pocket is my Bible ; — if Missis would please
get it for me."

Gassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heavily
marked passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the life of
Him by whose stripes we are healed.

" If Missis would only be so good as read that ar', --it's
better than water."

Gassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked ove;
the passage. She then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with a
beauty of intonation that was peculiar, that touching account
uf anguish and of glory. Often, as she read, her voice faltered,

428 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; Oil,

and sometimes failed her altogether, when she would stop,
with an air of frigid composure, till she had mastered herself.
When she came to the touching words, " Father, forgive them,
for they know not what they do," she threw down the book,
and, burying her face in the heavy masses of her hair, she
sobbed aloud, with a convulsive violence.

Tom was weeping, also, and occasionally uttering a smoth-
ered ejaculation.

" If we only could keep up to that ar' ! " said Tom ; — "it
seemed to come so natural to him, and we have to fight so
hard for 't ! 0 Lord, help us ! O blessed Lord Jesus, do help
us!"

" Missis," said Tom, after a while, " I can see that, some how,
you 're quite 'bove me in everything ; but there 's one thing
Missis might learn even from poor Tom. Ye said the Lord
took sides against us, because he lets us be 'bused and knocked
round ; but ye see what come on his own Son, — the blessed
Lord of Glory, -- warn't he allays poor1? and have we, any on
us, yet come so low as he come 1 The Lord han't forgot us, —
I 'in sartin' o' that ar'. If we suffer with him, we shall also
reign, scripture says ; but, if we deny him. he also will deny
us. Did n't they all suffer 1 — the Lord and all his 1 It tells
now they was stoned and sawn asunder, and wandered about
»n sheep-skins and goat-skins, and was destitute, afflicted, tor-
mented. Sufferin' an't no reason to make us think the Lord 's
turned agin us ; but jest the contrary, if only we hold on to
him, and does n't give up to sin."

" But why does he put us where we can't help but sin ? "
said the woman.

" I think we can help it," said Tom.

" You '11 see," said Gassy ; " what '11 you do 1 To-morrow
they '11 be at you again. I know 'em ; I 've seen all their
doings; I can't bear to think of all they '11 bring you to;-
and they '11 make you give out, at last ! "

" Lord Jesus ! " said Tom, " you will take care of my soul 1
0 Lord, do ! — don't let me give out ! "

" 0 dear ! " said Gassy ; " I 've heard all this crying and
praying before ; and yet, they 've been broken down, and
brought under. There 's Emmeline, she 's trying to hold on,
and you're trying, -- but what uso'? You must give up, or
be killed by inches."

" Well, then, I ivill die ! " said Tom. " Spin it out as long

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 429

as they can, they can't help rny dying, some time ! — and, after
that, they can't do no more. I 'm clar, I 'm set ! I know the
Lord '11 help me, and bring me through."

The woman did not answer ; she sat with her black eyes
intently fixed on the floor.

" May be it 's the way," she murmured to herself ; " but
those that have given up, there 's no hope for them ! — none !
We live in filth, and grow loathsome, till we loathe ourselves !
And we long to die, and we don't dare to kill ourselves ! — No
hope ! no hope ! no hope ! — this girl now, --just as old as I
was !

" You see me now," she said, speaking to Tom very rapidly ;
" see what I am ! Well, I was brought up in luxury ; the
first I remember is, playing about, when I was a child, in splen-
did parlors ; — when I was kept dressed up like a doll, and
company and visitors used to praise me. There was a garden
opening from the saloon windows ; and there I used to play
hide-and-go-seek, under the orange-trees, with my brothers and
sisters. I went to a convent, and there 1 learned music, French,
and embroidery, and what not ; and when I was fourteen, I
came out to my father's funeral. He died very suddenly, and
when the property came to be settled, they found that there
was scarcely enough to cover the debts ; and when the credi-
tors took an inventory of the property, I was set down in it.
My mother was a slave woman, and my father had always
meant to set me free ; but he had not done it, and so I was
set down in the list. I 'd always known who I was, but never
thought much about it. Nobody ever expects that a strong,
healthy man is a going to die. My father was a well man only
four hours before he died ; — it was one of the first cholera
cases in New Orleans. The day after the funeral, my father's
wife took her children, and went up to her father's plantation.
I thought they treated me strangely, but did n't know. There
was a young lawyer who they left to settle the business ; and
he came every day, and was about the house, and spoke very
politely to me. He brought with him, one day, a young man,
whom I thought the handsomest I had ever seen. I shall
never forget that evening. I walked with him in the garden.
I was lonesome and full of sorrow, and he was so kind and
gentle to me ; and he told me that he had seen me before I
went to the convent, and that he had loved me a great while,
and that he would be my friend and protector; — in short,

430

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

though he did n't tell me, he had paid two thousand dollars foi
me, and I was his property, — I became his willingly, for I
loved him. Loved ! " said the woman, stopping. " O, how I
did love that man ! How I love him now, — and always shall,

while I breathe ! He was so beautiful, so high, so noble ! He
put me into a beautiful house, with servants, horses, and car-
riages, and furniture, and dresses. Everything that money
could buy, he gave me ; but I did n't set any value on all that,
— I only cared for him. I loved him better than ray God and
my own soul ; and, if I tried, I could n't do any other way
from what he wanted me to.

" I wanted only one thing, — I did want him to marry me.
I thought, if he loved me as he said he did, and if I was what
he seemed to think I was, he would be willing to marry me
and set me free. But he convinced me that it would be im-
possible ; and he told me that, if we were only faithful to each
other, it was marriage before God. If that is true, was n't I
that man's wife ? Was n't I faithful ? For seven years, did n't

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 431

I study every look and motion, and only live and breathe to
please him 1 He had the yellow fever, and for twenty days
and nights I watched with him. I alone, — and gave him all
his medicine, and did everything for him ; and then he called
me his good angel, and said I 'd saved his life. We had two
beautiful children. The hrst was a boy, and we called him
Henry. He was the image of his father, - - he had such beau-
tiful eyes, such a forehead, and his hair hung all in curls around
it ; and he had all his father's spirit, and his talent, too. Little
Elise, he said, looked like me. He used to tell me that 1 was
the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, he was so proud of me
and the children. He used to love to have me dress them up,
and take them and me about in an open carriage, and hear the
remarks that people would make on us ; and he used to fill my
ears constantly with the tine things that were said in praise of
me and the children. 0, those were happy days ! I thought
I was as happy as any one could be ; but then there came
evil times. He had a cousin come to New Orleans, who was
his particular friend, — he thought all the world of him; —
but, from the first time I saw him, I could n't tell why, I
dreaded him ; for 1 felt sure he was going to bring misery on
us. He got Henry to going out with him, and often he would
not come home nights till two or three o'clock. I did not dare
say a word ; for Henry was so high-spirited, I was afraid to.
He got him to the gaming-houses ; and he was one of the sort
that, when he once got a going there, there was no holding
back. And then he introduced him to another lady, and I
saw soon that his heart was gone from me. He never told me,
but I saw it, - - 1 knew it, day after day, - - I felt my heart
breaking, but I could not say a word ! At this, the wretch
offered to buy me and the children of Henry, to clear off his
gambling debts, which stood in the way of his marrying as he
wished ; — and he sold ns. He told me. one day, that he had
business in the country, and should be gone two or three weeks.
He spoke kinder than usual, and said he should come back;
but it did n't deceive me. I knew that the time had come. I
was just like one turned into stone ; I could n't speak, nor shed
a tear. He kissed me and kissed the children, a good many
times, and went out. I saw him get on his horse, and I watched
him till he was quite out of sight ; and then I fell down, and
fainted.

" Then he came, the cursed wretch ! he came to take posses-

432

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

sion. He told me that he had bought me and my children ;
and showed me the papers. I cursed him. before God, and told
him I 'd die sooner than live with him.

"'Just as you please,' said he; 'but, if you don't behave
reasonably, I '11 sell both the children, where you shall never
see them again.' He told me that he always had meant to have
me, from the first time lie saw me ; and that he had drawn
Henry on, and got him in debt, on purpose to make him will-
ing to sell me. That he got him in love with another woman ;
and that I might know, after all that, that he should not give
up for a few airs and tears, and things of that sort.

" I gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children ;

— whenever I resisted his will anywhere, he would talk about
selling them, and he made me as submissive as he desired. 0,
what a life it was ! to live with my heart breaking, every day,

— to keep on, on, on, loving, when it was only misery; and to
be bound, body and soul, to one I hated. I used to love to

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

433

read to Henry, to play to him, to waltz with him, and sing
to him ; but everything I did for this one was a perfect drag,
— yet I was afraid to refuse anything. He was very imperious,
and harsh to the children. Elise was a timid little thing ; but
Henry was bold and high-spirited, like his father, and he had
never been brought under, in the least, by any one. He was

always finding fault, and quarrelling with him ; and I used to
live in daily fear and dread. I tried to make the child respect-
ful; — I tried to keep them apart, for I held on to those chil-
dren like death ; but it did no good. He sold both those children.
He took me to ride, one day, and when I came home, they were
nowhere to be found ! He told me he had sold them ; he showed
me the money, the price of their blood. Then it seemed as if
all good forsook roe. I raved and cursed, — cursed God and
man ; and, for a while, I believe, he really was afraid of me.
But he did n't give up so. He told me that my children were
sold, but whether I ever saw their faces again, depended on
him ; and that, if I was n't quiet, they should smart for it.
Well, you can do anything with a woman, when you 've got
her children. He made me submit ; he made me be peaceable .
he flattered me with hopes that, perhaps, he would buy them
back ; and so things went on, a week or two. One day, I was
out walking, and passed by the calaboose ; I saw a crowd about
the gate, and heard a child's voice, — and suddenly my Henry
broke away from two or three men who were holding him, and

434

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

ran, screaming, and caught my dress. They came up to him,
swearing dreadfully ; and one man, whose face I shall never
forget, told him that he would n't get away so ; that he was
going with him into the calaboose, and he 'd get a lesson there
he'd never forget. I tried to beg and plead, — they only
laughed ; the poor boy screamed and looked into my face, and
held on to me, until, in tearing him off, they tore the skirt of
my dress half away ; and they carried him in, screaming
Mother ! mother ! mother ! ' There was one man stood there
jeemed to pity me. I offered him all the money I had, if he 'd
only interfere. He shook his head, and said that the man said

the boy had been impudent and disobedient, ever since he
bought him ; that he was going to break him in, once for all.
I turned and ran ; and every step of the way, I thought that I
heard him scream. I got into the house ; ran, all out of breath,
to the parlor, where I found Butler. I told him, and begged
him to go and interfere. He only laughed, and told me the boy
had got his deserts. He'd got to be broken in, — the soonei
the better ; ' what did I expect V he asked.

" It seemed to me something in my head snapped, at that
moment. I felt dizzy and furious. I remember seeing a great
sharp bowie-knife on' the table ; I remember something about
catching it, and flying upon him ; and then all grew dark, and
I did n't know any more — not for days and days.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 435

"When I came to myself, I was in a nice room, --but not
mine. An old black woman tended me ; and a doctor came to
see me, and there was a great deal of care taken of me. After
a while, I found that he had gone away, and left me at this
house to be sold ; and that 's why they took such pains with me.

" I did n't mean to get well, and hoped I should n't ; but, in
spite of me, the fever went off, and I grew healthy, and finally
got up. Then, they made me dress up, every day ; and gentle-
men used to come in and stand and smoke their cigars, and look
at me, and ask questions, and debate my price. I was so
gloomy and silent, that none of them wanted me. They threat-
ened to whip me, if I was n't gayer, and did n't take some
pains to make myself agreeable. At length, one day, came a
gentleman named Stuart. He seemed to have some feeling for
me ; he saw that something dreadful was on my heart, and he
came to see me alone, a great many times, and finally persuaded
me to tell him. He bought me, at last, and promised to do all
he could to find and buy back my children. He went to the
hotel where my Henry was ; they told him he had been sold
to a planter up on Pearl river ; that was the last that I ever heard.
Then he found where my daughter was ; an old woman was
keeping her. He offered an immense sum for her, but they
would not sell her. Butler found out that it was for me he
wanted her ; and he sent me word that I should never have
her. Captain Stuart was very kind to me ; he had a splendid
plantation, and took me to it. In the course of a year, I had a
son born. 0, that child! — how I loved it! How just like
my poor Henry the little thing looked ! But I had made up
my mind, — yes, I had. I would never again let a child live
to grow up ! I took the little fellow in my arms, when he was
two weeks old, and kissed him, and cried over him ; and then
I gave him laudanum, and held him close to my bosom, while
he slept to death. How I mourned and cried over it ! and
who ever dreamed that it was anything but a mistake, that had
made me give it the laudanum1? but it 's one of the few things
that I 'm glad of, now. I am not sorry, to this day ; he, at least,
is out of pain. What better than death could I give him, poor
child ! After a while, the cholera came, and Captain Stuart
died ; everybody died that wanted to live, — and I, — I, though
1 went down to death's door, — I lived ! Then I was sold,
and passed from hand to hand, till I grew faded and wrinkled,
and I had a fever ; and then this wretch bought me, and brought
me here, — and here I am ! "

436 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her story,
with a wild, passionate utterance ; sometimes seeming to address
it to Tom, and sometimes speaking as in a soliloquy. So
vehement and overpowering was the force with which she spoke,
that, for a season, Tom was beguiled even from the pain of his
wounds, and, raising himself on one elbow, watched her as she
paced restlessly up and down, her long black hair swaying
heavily about her, as she moved.

" You tell me," she said, after a pause, " that there is a God,
• — a God that looks down and sees all these things. May be
it 's so. The sisters in the convent used to tell me of a day of
judgment, when everything is coming to light : — won't there
be vengeance, then !

" They think it 's nothing, what we suffer, — nothing, what
our children suffer ! It 's all a small matter ; yet I 've walked
the streets when it seemed as if I had misery enough in my one
heart to sink the city. I 've wished the houses would fall on
me, or the stones sink under me. Yes ! and, in the judgment
day, I will stand up before God, a witness against those that
have ruined me and my children, body and soul !

" When I was a girl, I thought I was religious ; I used to
love God and prayer. Now, I 'm a lost soul, pursued by devils
that torment me day and night ; they keep pushing me on and
on, — and I '11 do it, too, some of these days ! " she said, clench-
ing her hand, while an insane light glanced in her heavy black
eyes. " I '11 send him where he belongs, — a short way, too, —
one of these nights, if they burn me alive for it ! " A wild,
long laugh rang through the deserted room, and ended in a
hysteric sob ; she threw herself on the floor, in convulsive sob-
bings and struggles.

In a few moments, the frenzy fit seemed to pass off ; she
rose slowly, and seemed to collect herself.

"Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow?" she
said, approaching where Tom lay ; " shall I give you some more
water 1 "

There was a graceful and compassionate sweetness in her
voice and manner, as she said this, that formed a strange con-
trast with the former wildness.

Tom drank the water, and looked earnestly and pitifully into
her face.

" 0, Missis, I wish you 'd go to Him that can give you living
waters ! "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 437

" Go to him ! Where is he 1 "Who is he ? " said Gassy.

" Him that you read of to me, — the Lord."

" I used to see the picture of him, over the altar, when I was
a girL" said Gassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in an ex-
pression of mournful reverie ; " but, he is n't here ! there 's
nothing here, but sin and long, long, long despair ! Oh ! " She
laid her hand on her breast and drew in her breath, as if to lift,
a heavy weight.

Tom looked as if he would speak again ; but she cut him'
short, with a decided gesture.

"Don't talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you can."
And. placing water in his reach, and making whatever little
arrangements for his comfort she could, Gassy left the shed.

438 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE TOKENS.

' And slight, withal, may be the things that bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever ; it may be a sound,
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound, —
Striking the electric chain wherewith we 're darkly bound. n

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Can. 4

)HE sitting-room of Legree's establishment was a
large, long room, with a wide, ample lireplace.
It had once been hung with a showy and expen-
sive paper, which now hung mouldering, torn and
discolored, from the damp walls. The place had
that peculiar sickening, unwholesome smell, compounded of
mingled damp, dirt, and decay, which one often notices in close
old houses. The wall-paper was defaced, in spots, by slops of
beer and wine ; or garnished with chalk memorandums, and
long sums footed up, as if somebody had been practising arith-
metic there. In the fireplace stood a brazier full of burning
charcoal ; for, though the weather was not cold, the evenings
always seemed damp and chilly in that great room ; and Legree,
moreover, wanted a place to light his cigars, and heat his water
for punch. The ruddy glare of the charcoal displayed the con-
fused and unpromising aspect of the room, — saddles, bridles,
several sorts of harness, riding-whips, overcoats, and various
articles of clothing, scattered up and down the room in confused
variety ; and the dogs, of whom we have before spoken, had
encamped themselves among them, to suit their own taste and
convenience.

Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pouring
his hot water from a cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, grum-
bling, as he did so, -

" Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between me
and the new hands ! The fellow won't be fit to work for a
Veek, now, — right in the press of the season ! "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 439

" Yes, just like you," said a voice, behind his chair. It waa
the woman Gassy, who had stolen upon his soliloquy.

" Hah ! you she-devil ! you 've come back, have you 1 "

" Yes, I have," she said, coolly ; " come to have my own
way, too ! "

" You lie, you jade ! I '11 be up to my word. Either be-
have yourself, or stay down to the quarters, and fare and work
with the rest."

" I 'd rather, ten thousand times," said the woman, " live in
the dirtiest hole at the quarters, than be under your hoof! "

" But you are under niy hoof, for all that," said he, turning
upon her, with a savage grin ; '• that 's one comfort. So, sit
down here on my knee, my dear, and hear to reason," said he,
laying hold 011 her wrist.

" Simon Legree, take care ! " said the woman, with a sharp
flash of her eye, a glance so wild and insane in its light as to
be almost appalling. " You 're afraid of me, Simon," she said,
deliberately ; " and you 've reason to be ! But be careful, for
I 've got the devil in me ! "

The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close to his
ear.

" Get out ! I believe, to my soul, you have ! " said Legree,
pushing her from him, and looking uncomfortably at her.
" After all, Gassy," he said, " why can't you be friends with
me, as you used to 1 "

" Used to ! " said she, bitterly. She stopped short, — a world
of choking feelings, rising in her heart, kept her silent.

Gassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence
that a strong, impassioned woman can ever keep over the most
brutal man ; but, of late, she had grown more and more irri-
table and restless, under the hideous yoke of her servitude, and
her irritability, at times, broke out into raving insanity ; and
this liability made her a sort of object of dread to Legree, who
had that superstitious horror of insane persons which is common
to coarse and uninstructed minds. When Legree brought Em-
meline to the house, all the smouldering embers of womanly
feeling flashed up in the worn heart of Gassy, and she took part
with the girl ; and a fierce quarrel ensued between her and Le-
gree. Legree, in a fury, swore she should be put to field ser-
vice, if she would not be peaceable. Gassy, with proud scorn,
declared she would go to the field. And she worked there one
day, as we have described, to show how perfectly she scorneu
the threat.

44:0 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

Legi-ee AVUS secretly uneasy, all day ; for Gassy had an influ-
ence over nim from which he could not free himself. When
she presented her basket at the scales, he had hoped for some
concession, and addressed her in a sort of half-conciliatory, half-
scornful tone ; and she had answered with the bitterest con-
tempt.

The outrageous treatment of poor Tom had roused her still
more ; and she had followed Legree to the house, with no par-
ticular intention, but to upbraid him for his brutality.

" I wish, Cassy," said Legree, " you 'd behave yourself de-
cently."

" You talk about behaving decently ! And what have you
been doing 1 -- you, who haven't even sense enough to keep
from spoiling one of your best hands, right in the most press-
ing season, just for your devilish temper ! "

" I was a fool, it 's a fact, to let any such brangle come up,"
said Legree ; " but, when the boy set up his will, he had to be
broke ir."

" I reckon you won't break him in ! "

" Won't I ? " said Legree, rising, passionately. " I 'd like to
know if I won't 1 He '11 be the h'rst nigger that ever came it
round me ! I '11 break every bone in his body, but he shall
give up ! "

Just then the door opened, and Sambo entered. He came
forward, bowing, and holding out something in a paper.

" What 's that, you dog 1 " said Legree.

" It 's a witch thing, Mas'r ! "

"A what?"

" Something that niggers gets from witches. Keeps 'em from
feelin' when they 's flogged. He had it tied round his neck^
with a black string."

Legree, like most godless and cruel men, was superstitious
He took the paper, and opened it uneasily.

There dropped out of it a silver dollar, and a long, shining
curl of fair hair, — hair which, like a living thing, twined itself
round Legree's lingers.

" Damnation ! " he screamed, in sudden passion, stamping
on the floor, and pulling furiously at the hair, as if it burned
him. "Where did this come from1? Take it off! — burn it
Up i — burn it up ! " he screamed, tearing it off, and throwing
it into the charcoal. " What did you bring it to me for 1 "

Sambo stood, with his heavy mouth wide open, and aghas)

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

441

with wonder ; and Gassy, who was preparing to leave the apart-
ment, stopped, and looked at him in perfect amazement.

" Don't you bring me any more of your devilish things ! "
said he, shaking his fist at Sambo, who retreated hastily to-
wards the door ; and, picking up the silver dollar, he sent if
smashing through the window-pane, out into the darkness.

Sambo was glad to make his escape. When he was gone,
Legree seemed a little ashamed of his fit of alarm. He sat
doggedly down in his chair, and began sullenly sipping his
tumbler of punch.

Gassy prepared herself for going out, unobserved by him;
and slipped away to minister to poor Tom, as we have already
related.

And what was the matter with Legree 1 and what was there
in a simple curl of fair hair to appall that brutal man, familiar
with every form of cruelty1? To answer this, we must carry
the reader backward in his history. Hard and reprobate as
the godless man seemed now, there had been a time when he
had been rocked on the bosom of a mother, — cradled with

442 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

prayers and pious hymns, — his now seared brow bedewed
with the waters of holy baptism. In early childhood, a fair-
haired woman had led him, at the sound of Sabbath bell, to
worship and to pray. Far in New England that mother had
trained her only son, with long, unwearied love, and patient
prayers. Born of a hard-tempered sire, on whom that gentle
woman had wasted a world of unvalued love, Legree had fol-
lowed in the steps of his father. Boisterous, unruly, and
tyrannical, he despised all her counsel, and would none of her
reproof ; and, at an early age, broke from her, to seek his for-
tunes at sea. He never came home but once, after ; and then,
his mother, with the yearning of a heart that must love some-
thing, and has nothing else to love, clung to him, and sought,
with passionate prayers and entreaties, to win him from a life
of sin, to his soul's eternal good.

That was Legree's day of grace ; then good angels called
him ; then he was almost persuaded, and mercy held him by
the hand. His heart inly relented, — there was a conflict, —
but sin got the victory, and he set all the force of his rough
nature against the conviction of his conscience. He drank and
swore, --was wilder and more brutal than ever. And, one
night, when his mother, in the last agony of her despair, knelt
at his feet, he spurned her from him, — threw her senseless on
the floor, and, with brutal curses, fled to his ship. The next
Legree heard of his mother was, when, one night, as he was
carousing among drunken companions, a letter was put into his
hand. He opened it, and a lock of long, curling hair fell
from it, and twined about his fingers. The letter told him his
mother was dead, and that, dying, she blest and forgave him.

There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turns
things sweetest and holiest to phantoms of horror and affright.
That pale, loving mother, — her dying prayers, her forgiving,
love, — wrought in that demoniac heart of sin only as a damn-
ing sentence, bringing with it a fearful looking for of judgment
and fiery indignation. Legree burned the hair, and burned
the letter ; and when he saw them hissing and crackling in
the flame, inly shuddered as he thought of everlasting fires.
He tried to drink, and revel, and swear away the memory ;
but often, in the deep night, whose solemn stillness arraigns
the bad soul in forced communion with herself, he had seen
that pale mother rising by his bedside, and felt the soft twin-
ing of that hair around his fingers, till the cold sweat would

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 443

roll down his face, and he would spring from his bed in horror.
Ye who have wondered to hear, in the same evangel, that God
is love, and that God is a consuming tire, see ye not how, to
the soul resolved in evil, perfect love is the most fearful torture,
the seal and sentence of the direst despair ?

" Blast it ! " said Legree to himself, as he sipped his liquor ;
" where did he get that 1 If it did n't look just like — whoo !
I thought I 'd forgot that. Curse me, if I think there 's any
("each thing as forgetting anything, any how, — hang it ! I 'm
'jonesome ! I mean to call Em. She hates me — the monkey !
I don't care, — I '11 make her come ! "

Legree stepped out into a large entry, which went up stairs,
Iby what had formerly heen a superb winding staircase ; hut
the passage-way was dirty and dreary, encumbered with boxes
and unsightly litter. The stairs, uncarpeted, seemed winding
up, in the gloom, to nobody knew where ! The pale moon-
light streamed through a shattered fanlight over the door ; the
air was unwholesome and chilly, like that of a vault.

Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voice
singing. It seemed strange and ghostlike in that dreary old
house, perhaps because of the already tremulous state of his
nerves. Hark ! what is it ]

A wild, pathetic voice chants a hymn common among the
slaves : —

" 0, there '11 be mourning, mourning, mourning,
0, there '11 be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ ! "

"Blast the girl! "said Legree. "I '11 choke her. — Em!
Em ! " he called, harshly ; but only a mocking echo from the
walls answered him. The sweet voice still sung on : —

" Parents and children there shall part !
Parents and children there shall part !
Shall part to meet no more ! "

And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the re-
frain, -

" 0, there '11 be mourning, mourning, mourning,
O, there '11 be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ ! "

Legree stopped. He would have been ashamed to tell of it,
but large drops of sweat stood on his forehead, his heart beat
heavy and thick with fear ; he even thought he saw something
white rising and glimmering in the gloom before him, and

444 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN-, OR,

shuddered to think what if the form of his dead mothej
should suddenly appear to him.

" I know one thing," he said to himself, as he stumbled
back in the sitting-room, and sat down ; " I '11 let that fellow
alone, after this ! What did I want of his cussed paper 1 I
b'lieve I am bewitched, sure enough ! I 've been shivering
and sweating, ever since ! Where did he get that hair ? It
could n't have been that ! I burnt that up, I know I did !
It would be a joke, if hair could rise from the dead ! "

Ah, Legree ! that golden tress was charmed ; each hair had
in it a spell of terror and remorse for thee, and was used by a
mightier power to bind thy cruel hands from inflicting utter-
most evil on the helpless !

" I say," said Legree, stamping and whistling to the dogs,
" wake up, some of you, and keep me company ! " but the
dogs only opened one eye at him, sleepily, and closed it again.

" I '11 have Sambo and Quimbo up here, to sing and dance
one of their hell dances, and keep off these horrid notions,"
said Legree ; and, putting on his hat, he went on to the ve-
randa, and blew a horn, with which he commonly summoned
his two sable drivers.

Legree was often wont, when in a gracious humor, to get
these two worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warming
them up with whiskey, amuse himself by setting them to sing-
ing, dancing, or fighting, as the humor took him.

It was between one and two o'clock at night, as Gassy was
returning from her ministrations to poor Tom, that she heard
the sound of wild shrieking, whooping, hallooing, and singing,
from the sitting-room, mingled with the barking of dogs, and
other symptoms of general uproar.

She came up on the veranda steps, and looked in. Legree
and both the drivers, in a state of furious intoxication, were
singing, whooping, upsetting chairs, and making all manner of
ludicrous and horrid grimaces at each other.

She rested her small, slender hand on the window-blind,
and looked fixedly at them ; — there was a world of anguish,
scorn, and fierce bitterness, in her black eyes, as she did so.
" Would it be a sin to rid the world of such a wretch ] " she
said to herself.

She turned hurriedly away, and, passing round to a back
door, glided up stairs, and tapped at Emmelme's door.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 445

CHAPTER XXXVI.

EMMELINE AND CASSY.

ASSY entered the room, and found Erameline sifc
ting, pale with fear, in the furthest corner of it.
As she came in, the girl started up nervously; but,
on seeing who it was, rushed forward, and catch-
ing her arm, said, " 0, Gassy, is it you 'I I 'm so
glad you 've come ! I was afraid it was - 0, you don't
know what a horrid noise there has been, down stairs, all this
evening ! "

" I ought to know," said Gassy, dryly. " I 've heard it
often enough."

" 0, Gassy ! do tell me, — could n't we get away from this
place1? I don't care where, — into the swamp among the
snakes, — anywhere ! Could n't we get somewhere away from
here?"

" Nowhere, but into our graves," said Gassy.

" Did you ever try ? "

" I 've seen enough of trying, and what comes of it," said
Gassy.

" I VI be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark
from trees. I an't afraid of snakes ! I 'd rather have one
near me than him," said Emmeline, eagerly.

" There have been a good many here of your opinion," said
Gassy ; " but you could n't stay in the swamps, — you 'd be
tracked by the dogs, and brought back, and then — then -

"What would he do?" said the girl, looking, with breath-
less interest, into her face.

" What would n't he do, you 'd better ask," said Gassy.
" He 's learned his trade well, among the pirates in the West
Indies. You would n't sleep much, if I should tell you things
I 've seen, — things that he tells of, sometimes, for good jokes.
I Ve heard screams here that I have n't been able to get out of
my head for weeks and weeks. There 's a place way out down

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

by the quarters, where you can see a black, blasted tree, and
the ground all covered with black ashes. Ask any one what
was done there, and see if they will dare to tell you."

" 0, what do you mean 1 "

" I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you,
the Lord only knows what we may see to-morrow, if that poor
follow holds out as he 's begun."

" Horrid ! " said Emrneline, every drop of blood receding
from her cheeks. " 0, Cassy, do tell me what I shall do ! "

"What I've done. Do the best you can, — do what you
must, — and make it up in hating and cursing."

" He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy,"
said Emrneline ; " and I hate it so -

" You 'd better drink," said Cassy. " I hated it, too ; and
now I can't live without it. One must have something, —
things don't look so dreadful, when you take that."

" Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing,"
eaid Emrneline.

" Mother told you ! " said Cassy, with a thrilling and bitter
emphasis on the word mother. " What use is it for mothers
to say anything 1 You are all to be bought and paid for, and
your souls belong to whoever gets you. That 's the way it
goes. I say, drink brandy ; drink all you can, and it '11 make
things come easier."

" 0, Cassy ! do pity me ! "

"Pity you! — don't 11 Haven't I a daughter, -- Lord
knows where she is, and whose she is, now, — going the way
her mother went, before her, I suppose, and that her children
must go, after her ! There 's no end to the curse — forever ! "

" I wish I 'd never been born ! " said Einrueline, wringing
her hands.

" That 's an old wish with me," said Cassy. " I 've got
used to wishing that. I 'd die, if I dared to," she said, look-
ing out into the darkness, with that still, fixed despair which
was the habitual expression of her face when at rest.

" It would be wicked to kill one's self," said Emrneline.

"I don't know why, --no wickeder than things we live and
do, day after day. But the sisters told me things, when I was
in the convent, that make me afraid to die. If it would only
be the end of us, why, then -

Em incline turned away, and hid her face in her hands.

While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 447

overcome with his carouse, had sunk to sleep in the room
below. Legree was not an habitual drunkard. His coarse,
strong nature craved, and could endure, a continual stimula-
tion, that would have utterly wrecked and crazed a finer one.
But a deep, underlying spirit of cautiousness prevented his
often yielding to appetite in such measure as to lose control of
himself.

This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from
his mind those fearful elements of woe and remorse which
woko within him, he had indulged more than common ; so
that, when he had discharged his sable attendants, he fell
heavily on a settle in the room, and was sound asleep.

Oh ! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of
sleep ] — that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to
the mystic scene of retribution ! Legree dreamed. In his
heavy and feverish sleep, a veiled form stood beside him, and
laid a cold, soft hand upon him. He thought he knew who it
was ; and shuddered, with creeping horror, though the face was
veiled. Then he thought he felt that hair twining round his
fingers ; and then, that it slid smoothly round his neck, and
tightened and tightened, and he could not draw his breath ; and
then he thought ,'oices ivhispered to him, — whispers that chilled
him with horror. Then it seemed to him he was on the edge
of a frightful abyss, holding on and struggling in mortal fear,
while dark hands stretched up, and were pulling him over ; and
Gassy came behind him laughing, and pushed him. And then
rose up that solemn veiled figure, and drew aside the veil. It
was his mother ; and she turned away from him, and he fell
down, down, down, amid a confused noise of shrieks, and groans,
and shouts of demon laughter, — and Legree awoke.

Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room.
The morning star stood, with its solemn, holy eye of light, look-
ing down on the man of sin, from out the brightening sky. 0,
with what freshness, what solemnity and beauty, is each new
day born ; as if to say to insensate man, " Behold ! thou hast
one more chance ! Strive for immortal glory ! " There is no
speech nor language where this voice is not heard ; but the bold,
bad man heard it not. He woke with an oath and a curse.
What to him was the gold and purple, the daily miracle of
morning ! What to him the sanctity of that star which the
Son of God has hallowed as his own emblem 1 Brute-like, he
saw without perceiving ; and, stumbling forward, poured out a
tumbler of brandy and drank half of it.

448 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

" I 've had a h — 1 of a night ! " he said to Gassy, who just
then entered from an opposite door.

" You '11 get plenty of the same sort, by and by," said she,
dryly.

" What do you mean, you minx 1 "

"You '11 find out, one of these days," returned Gassy, in the
same tone. " Now, Simon, I 've one piece of advice to give
you."

" The devil, you have ! "

" My advice is," said Gassy, steadily, as she began adjusting
some things about the room, " that you let Tom alone."

" What business is 't of yours 1 "

" What 1 To be sure, I don't know what it should be. If
you want to pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use him right
up in the press of the season, just to serve your own spite, it 's
no business of mine. I 've done what I could for him."

"You have? What business have you meddling in my
matters 1 "

" None, to be sure. I 've saved you some thousands of dol-
lars, at different times, by taking care of your hands, — that 's
all the thanks I get. If your crop comes shorter into market
than any of theirs, you won't lose your bet, I suppose 1 Tornp-
kins won't lord it over you, I suppose, — and you '11 pay down
your money like a lady, won't you] I think I see you do-
ing it ! "

Legree, like many other planters, had but one form of ambi-
tion,— to have in the heaviest crop of the season, — and he
had several bets on this very present season pending in the next
town. Gassy, therefore, with woman's tact, touched the only
string that could be made to vibrate.

" Well, I '11 let him off at what he 's got," said Legree ; " but
he shall beg my pardon, and promise better fashions."

" That he won't do," said Gassy.

"Won't, — eh?"

" No, he won't," said Gassy.

" I 'd like to know why, Mistress," said Legree, in the ex-
treme of scorn.

" Because he 's done right, and he knows it, and won't say
he 's done wrong."

" Who a cuss cares what he knows 1 The nigger shall say
what I please, or-

" Or, you '11 lose your bet on the cotton crop, by keeping
him out of the field, just at this very press."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 4-i'J

" But he will give up, — course, he will ; don't I know what
niggers is 1 He '11 beg like a dog, this morning."

" He won't, Simon ; you don't know this kind. You may
kill him by inches, — you won't get the first word of confession
out of him."

" We '11 see ; — where is he ? " said Legree, going out.

" In the waste-room of the gin-house," said Gassy.

Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Gassy, still sallied
forth from the house with a degree of misgiving which was not
common with him. His dreams of the past night, mingled
with Gassy 's prudential suggestions, considerably affected his
mind. He resolved that nobody should be witness of his en-
counter with Tom ; and determined, if he could not subdue him
by bullying, to defer his vengeance, to be wreaked in a more
convenient season.

The solemn light of dawn — the angelic glory of the morn-
ing star — had looked in through the rude window of the shed
where Tom was lying ; and, as if descending on that star-beam,
came the solemn words, " I am the root and offspring of David,
and the bright and morning star." The mysterious warnings
and intimations of Gassy, so far from discouraging his soul, in
the end had roused it as with a heavenly call. He did not
know but that the day of his death was dawning in the sky ;
and his heart throbbed with solemn throes of joy and desire, as
he thought that the wondrous all, of which he had often pon-
dered,— the great white throne, with its ever radiant rainbow;
the white-robed multitude, with voices as many waters ; the
crowns, the palms, the harps, — might all break upon his vision
before that sun should set again. And, therefore, without shud-
dering or trembling, he heard the voice of his persecutor, as he
drew near.

" Well, my boy," said Lepree, with a contemptuous kick,
"how do you find yourself 1 Did n't I tell yer I could larn yer
a thing or two1? How do yer like it, — eh1? How did yer
whaling agree with yer, Tom 1 An't quite so crank as ye wa
last night. Ye could n't treat a poor sinner, now, to a bit of .
sermon, could ye, — eh 1 "

Tom answered nothing.

" Get up, you beast ! " said Legree, kicking him again.

This was a difficult matter for one so braised and faint ; and,
as Tom made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally.

" What makes ye so spry, this morning, Tom ? Cotched cold,
may be, last night."

450 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confronting
his master with a steady, unmoved front.

" The devil, you can ! " said Legree, looking him over. " I
believe you have n't got enough yet. Now, Tom. get right
down on yer knees and beg my pardon, for yer shines last
night."

Tom did not move.

" Down, you dog ! " said Legree, striking him with his rid-
ing-whip.

" Mas'r Legree," said Tom, " I can't do it. I did only
what I thought was right. I shall do just so again, if ever
the time comes. I never will do a cruel thing, come what
may."

" Yes, but ye don't know what may come, Master Tom. Ye
think what you've got is something. I tell you 't an't any-
thing,-- nothing 't all. How would ye like to be tied to a
tree, and have a slow fire lit up around ye ; — would n't that
be pleasant, — eh, Tom 1 "

" Mas'r," said Tom, " I know ye can do dreadful things ;
but," - he stretched, nimself upward and clasped his hands, —
"but, after ye've killed the body, there an't no more ye can
do. And 0, there 's all ETERNITY to come, after that ! "

ETERNITY, — the word thrilled through the black man's
soul with light and power, as he spoke ; it thrilled through
the sinner's soul, too, like the bite of a scorpion. Legree
gnashed on him with his teetu, bat rage kept him silent ; and
Tom, like a man disenthralled, spoke, in a clear and cheerful
voice, -

" Mas'r Legree, as ye bought me, I '11 be a true and faithful
servant to ye. I '11 give ye all the work of my hands, all my
time, all my strength ; but my soul L won't give up to mortal
man. I will hold on to the Lord, and put his commands be-
fore all, — die or live ; you may be ^ure on 't. Mas'r Legree, I
an't a grain afeard to die. I 'd as soon die as not. Ye may
whip me, starve me, burn me, — it 'li only send me sooner
where I want to go."

" I '11 make ye give out, though, 'fore 1 've done ! " said Le
gree, in a rage.

" I shall have help" said Tom ; " you '11 never do it."

" Who the devil 's going to help you ] " said Legree, scorn-
fully.

" The Lord Almighty," said Tom.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

451

" D — n you ! " said Legree, as with one blow of his fist he
felled Tom to the earth.

A cold soft hand fell on Legree's, at this moment. He
turned, — it was Cassy's ; but the cold soft touch recalled his
dream of the night before, o.nd, flashing through the chambers
of his brain, came all the fearful images of the night-watches,
with a portion of the horror that accompanied them.

" Will you be a fool ] " said Gassy, in French. " Let him
go ! Let me alone to get him fit to be in the field again. Is
n't it just as I told you ? "

452 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

They say the alligator, the rhinoceros, though enclosed in
bullet-proof mail, have each a spot where they are vulnerable ;
and tierce, reckless, unbelieving reprobates have commonly tbi
point in superstitious dread.

Legree turned away, determined to let the point go for the
time.

" Well, have it your own way," he said, doggedly, to
Gassy.

" Hark, ye ! " he said to Tom ; " I won't deal with ye now,
because the business is pressing, and I want all my hands ;
but I never forget. I '11 score it against ye, and some time I '11
have my pay out o' yer old black hide, — mind ye ! "

Legree turned, and went out.

" There you go," said Gassy, looking darkly after him ;
" your reckoning 's to come, yet ! — My poor fellow, how are
you ] "

" The Lord God hath sent his angel, and shut the lion's
mouth, for this time," said Tom.

" For this time, to be sure," said Gassy ; " but now you 've
got his ill will upon you, to follow you day in, day out, hang-
ing like a dog on your throat, — sucking your blood, bleeding
away your life, drop by drop. I know the man."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 453

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LIBERTY.

" No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the
altar of slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar
and the God sink together in the dust, and he stands redeemed, regenerated,
and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal emancipation."
CURRAN.

r WHILE \ve must leave Tom in the hands of his
persecutors, while we turn to pursue the fortunes
of George and his wife, whom we left in friendly
hands, in a farm-house on the roadside.

Tom Loker we left groaning and touzling in a
most immaculately clean Quaker bed, under the motherly su-
pervision of Aunt Dorcas, who found him to the full as tracta-
ble a patient as a sick bison.

Imagine a tall, dignified, spiritual woman, whose clear mus-
lin cap shades waves of silvery hair, parted on a broad, clear
forehead, which overarches thoughtful gray eyes. A snowy
handkerchief of lisse crape is folded neatly across her bosom,
her glossy brown silk dress rustles peacefully, as she glides up
and down the chamber.

" The devil ! " says Tom Loker, giving a great throw to the
bedclothes.

" I must request thee, Thomas, not to use such language,"
says Aunt Dorcas, as she quietly rearranged the bed.

" Well, I won't, granny, if I can help it," says Tom ; " but
it is enough to make a fellow swear, — so cursedly hot ! "

Dorcas removed a comforter from the bed, straightened tlu
clothes again, and tucked them in till Tom looked something
like a chrysalis ; remarking, as she did so, —

"I wish, friend, thee would leave off cursing and swearing,
and think upon thy ways."

"What the devil," said Tom, "should I think of them for?
Last thing ever / want to think of, — hang it all ! " And Tom

454 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN : OR.

flounced over, untucking and disarranging everything, in a
manner frightful to behold.

" That fellow and gal are here, I s'pose," said he, sullenlys
after a pause.

" They are so," said Dorcas.

" They 'd better be off up to the lake," said Tom ; "the quicker
the better."

" Probably they will do so," said Aunt Dorcas, knitting,
peacefully.

" And hark ye," said Tom; "we've got correspondents in
Sandusky, that watch the boats for us. 1 don't care if I tell,
now. 1 hope they will get away, just to spite Marks, — the
cursed puppy ! — d — n him ! "

"Thomas ! " said Dorcas.

" I tell you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, I
shall split," said Tom. " But about the gal, — tell 'em to
dress her up some way, so 's to alter her. Her description 's
out in Sandusky."

" We will attend to that matter," said Dorcas, with charac-
teristic composure.

As we at this place take leave of Tom Loker, we may as
well say, that, having lain three weeks at the Quaker dwelling,
sick with a rheumatic fever, which set in, in company with his
other afflictions, Tom arose from his bed a somewhat sadder
and wiser man ; and, in place of slave-catching, betook himself
to life in one of the new settlements, where his talents devel-
oped themselves more happily in trapping bears, wolves, and
other inhabitants of the forest, in which he made himself quite
a name in the land. Tom always spoke reverently of the
Quakers. " Nice people," he would say ; " wanted to convert
me, but could n't come it, exactly. But, tell ye what, stranger,
they do fix up a sick fellow first-rate, -- no mistake. Make
jist the tallest kind o' broth and knick-knacks."

As Tom had informed them that their party would be looked
for in Sandusky, it was thought prudent to divide them. Jim,
with his old mother, was forwarded separately ; and a night or
two after, George and Eliza, with their child, were driven pri-
vately into Sandusky, and lodged beneath a hospitable roof,
preparatory to taking their last passage on the lake.

Their night was now far spent, and the morning star of lib-
erty rose fair before them. Liberty ! — electric word ! What
\s it ] Is there anything more in it than a name, — a rhetori-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 455

cal flourish? Why, men and women of America, does your
heart's blood thrill at that word, for which your fathers bled,
and your braver mothers were willing that their noblest and
best should die 1

Is there anything in it glorious and dear for a nation, that
is not also glorious and dear for a man ? What is freedom to
a nation, but freedom to the individuals in it 1 What is free-
dom to that young man, who sits there, with his arms folded
over his broad chest, the tint of African blood in his cheek, its
dark tires in his eye, — what is freedom to George Harris 1 To
your fathers, freedom was the right of a nation to be a nation.
To him, it is the right of a man to be a man, and not a brute ;
the right to call the wife of his bosom his wife, and to protect
her from lawless violence ; the right to protect and educate his
child ; the right to have a home of his own, a religion of his
own, a character of his own, unsubject to the will of another.
All these thoughts were rolling and seething in George's breast,
as he was pensively leaning his head on his hand, watching his
wife, as she was adapting to her slender and pretty form the
articles of man's attire, in which it was deemed safest she should
make her escape.

" Now for it," said she, as she stood before the glass, and
shook down her silky abundance of black curly hair. " I say,
George, it 's almost a pity, is n't," she said, as she held up
some of it, playfully, — " pity it 's all got to come ofH "

George smiled sadly, and made no answer.

Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered as one
long lock after another was detached from her head.

" There, now, that '11 do," she said, taking up a hair-brush ;
" now for a few fancy touches."

" There, an't I a pretty young fellow ? " she said, turning
around to her husband, laughing and blushing at the same time.

" You always will be pretty, do what you will," said George.

"What does make you so sober1?" said Eliza, kneeling on
one knee, and laying her hand on his. " We are only within
twenty-four hours of Canada, they say. Only a day and a
night on the lake, and then, — 0, then ! -

"0, Eliza!" said George, drawing her towards him. "that
is it ! Now my fate is all narrowing down to a point. To
come so near, to be almost in sight, and then lose all. I should
•lever live under it, Eliza."

" Don't fear," said his wife, hopefully. " The good Lord

456

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

would not have brought us so far, if he did n't mean to carry
ns through. I seem to feel him with us, George."

" You are a blessed woman, Eliza ! " said George, clasping
her with a convulsive grasp. " But, — 0, tell me ! can tins
great mercy be for us 1 Will these years and years of misery
come to an end 1 — shall we be free 1 "

" I am sure of it, George," said Eliza, looking upward, whil'
tears of hope and enthusiasm shone on her long, dark lashe;
" I feel it in me, that God is going to bring us out of bondage,
this very day."

" I will believe you, Eliza," said George, rising suddenly
up. " I will believe, — come, let 's be off. Well, indeed,"
said he, holding her off at arm's length, and looking admiringly
at her, " you are, a pretty little fellow. That crop of little
short curls is quite becoming. Put on your cap. So, — a lit-
tle to one side. I never saw you look quite so pretty. But,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 457

it 's almost time for the carriage ; — I wonder if Mrs. Smyth
has got Harry rigged 1 "

The door opened, and a respectable, middle-aged woman en-
tered, leading little Harry, dressed in girl's clothes.

" What a pretty girl he makes," said Eliza, turning him
xmnd. "We call him Harriet, you see; — don't the name
;ome nicely ? "

The child stood gravely regarding his mother in her new and
strange attire, observing a profound, silence, and occasionally
drawing deep sighs, and peeping at her from under his dark
curls.

" Does Harry know mamma 1 " said Eliza, stretching her
hands toward him.

The child clung shyly to the woman.

" Come, Eliza, why do you try to coax him, when you know
that he has got to be kept away from you 1 "

" I know it 's foolish," said Eliza ; " yet, I can't bear to
have him turn away from me. But come, — where 's my
cloak 1 Here, — how is it men put on cloaks, George ] "

" You must wear it so," said her husband, throwing it over
his shoulders.

" So, then," said Eliza, imitating the motion, — " and I must
stamp, and take long steps, and try to look saucy."

" JJon't exert yourself," said George. " There is, now and
then, a modest young man ; and I think it would be easier for
you to act that character."

" And these gloves ! mercy upon us ! " said Eliza ; " why, my
hands are lost in them."

" I advise you to keep them on pretty strictly," said George.
" Your little slender paw might bring us all out. Now, Mrs.
Smyth, you are to go under our charge, and be our aunty, — •
you mind."

" I 've heard," said Mrs. Smyth, " that there have been men
down, warning all the packet captains against a man and
woman, with a little boy."

" They have ! " said George. " Well, if we see any such peo-
ple, we can tell them."

A hack now drove to the door, and the friendly family who
had received the fugitives crowded around them with farewell
greetings.

The disguises the party had assumed were in accordance
with the hints of Tom Loker. Mrs. Smyth, a respectable

458 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

woman from the settlement in Canada, whither they were flee-
ing, being fortunately about crossing the lake to return thither,
had consented to appear as the aunt of little Harry ; and, in
order to attach him to her, he had been allowed to remain, the
two last days, under her sole charge ; and an extra amount oj
petting, joined to an indefinite amount of seed-cakes and candj
had cemented a very close attachment on the part of the younj_
gentleman.

The hack drove to the wharf. The two young men, as they
appeared, walked up the plank into the boat, Eliza gallantly
giving her arm to Mrs. Smyth, and George attending to theii
baggage.

George was standing at the captain's office, settling for his
party, when he overheard two men talking by his side.

" I 've watched every one that came on board," said one,
" and I know they 're not on this boat."

The voice was that of the clerk of the' boat. The speakei
whom he addressed was our sometime friend Marks, who, with
that valuable perseverance which characterized him, had conn
on to Sandusky, seeking whom he might devour.

" You would scarcely know the woman from a white one,"
said Marks. " The man is a very light mulatto ; he has a
brand in one of his hands."

The hand with which George was taking the tickets and
change trembled a little ; but he turned coolly around, fixed an
unconcerned glance on the face of the speaker, and walked leis-
urely toward another part of the boat, where Eliza stood wait-
ing for him.

Mrs. Smyth, with little Harry, sought the seclusion of the
ladies' cabin, where the dark beauty of the supposed little giri
drew many nattering comments from the passengers.

George had the satisfaction, as the bell rang out its farewell
peal, to see Marks walk down the plank to the shore ; and
drew a long sigh of relief, when the boat had put a returnless
distance between them.

It was a superb day. The blue waves of Lake Erie danced,
rippling and sparkling, in the sunlight. A fresh breeze blew
from the shore, and the lordly boat ploughed her way right
gallantly onward.

0, what an untold world there is in one human heart ! Who
thought, as George walked calmly up and down the deck of
the steamer, with his shy companion at his side, of all that was

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

459

burning in his bosom ? The mighty good that seemed ap-
proaching seemed too good, too fair, even to be a reality ; aud
he felt a jealous dread, every moment of the day, that some-
thing would rise to snatch it from him.

But the boat swept on. Hours fleeted, and, at last, clear and
full rose the blessed English shores ; shores charmed by a
mighty spell, --with one touch to dissolve every incantatiot
of slavery, no matter in what language pronounced, or by what
national power confirmed.

George and his wife stood arm in arm, as the boat neared
the small town of Amherstburg, in Canada. His breath grew
thick and short ; a mist gathered before his eyes ; he silently
pressed the little hand that lay trembling on his arm. The
bell rang ; the boat stopped. Scarcely seeing what he did, he
looked out his baggage, and gathered his little party. The lit-
tle company were landed on the shore. They stood still till
the boat had cleared ; and then, with tears and embracings, the
husband and wife, with their wondering child in their arms,
knelt down and lifted up their hearts to God !

" 'T was something like the hurst from death to life ;

From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven;
From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife,

To the pure freedom of a sonl forgiven ;

Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven,
And mortal puts on immortality,
When Mercy's hand hath turned the golden key,
And Mercy's voice hath said, Rejoice, thy soul is free."

The little party were soon guided, by Mrs. Smyth, to the
hospitable abode of a good missionary, whom Christian charity

460

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

has placed here as a shepherd to the outcast and wandering,
who are constantly finding an asylum on this shore.

Who can speak the blessedness of that first day of freedom 1
Is not the sense of liberty a higher and a liner one than any of
the live 1 To move, speak, and breathe, — go out and come in
unwatched, and free from danger ! Who can speak the bless-
ings of that rest which comes down on the free man's pillow,
under laws which insure to him the rights that God has given
to man ] How fair and precious to that mother was that
sleeping child's face, endeared by the memory of a thousand
dangers ! How impossible was it to sleep, in the exuberant
possession of such blessedness ! And yet, these two had not
one acre of ground, — not a roof that they could call their own,

— they had spent their all, to the last dollar. They had noth-
ing more than the birds of the air, or the nowers of the field,

— yet they could not sleep for joy. " 0, ye who take freedom
from man, with what words shall ye answer it to God 1 "

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 461

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE VICTORY.
" Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory."

AVE not many of us, in the weary way of life,
felt, in some hours, how far easier it were to die
than to live 1

The martyr, when faced even by a death of
bodily anguish and horror, finds in the very ter-
ror of his doom a strong stimulant and tonic. There is a vivid
excitement, a thrill and fervor, which may carry through any
crisis of suffering that is the birth-hour of eternal glory and rest.

But to live, - - to wear on, day after day, of mean, bitter,
low, harassing servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed,
every power of feeling gradually smothered, — this long and
wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow, daily bleeding away of the
inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour, -- this is the true
searching test of what there may be in man or woman.

When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor, and heard
his threats, and thought in his very soul that his hour was
come, his heart swelled bravely in him, and he thought he
could bear torture and fire, bear anything, with the vision of
Jesus and heaven but just a step beyond ; but, when he was
gone, and the present excitement passed off, came back the
pain of his bruised and weary limbs, — came back the sense
of his utterly degraded, hopeless, forlorn estate ; and the daj
passed wearily enough.

Long before his wounds were healed, Legree insisted that he
should be put to the regular field-^vork ; and then came day
after day of pain and weariness, aggravated by every kind of
injustice and indignity that the ill-will of a mean and malicious
mind could devise. Whoever, in our circumstances, has made
trial of pain, even with all the alleviations which, for us, usually
attend it, must know the irritation that comes with it. Tom

462 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

no longer wondered at the habitual surliness of his associates ;
nay, he found the placid, sunny temper, which had been the
habitude of his life, broken in on, and sorely strained, by the
inroads of the same thing. He had flattered himself on leisure
to read his Bible ; but there was no such thing as leisure there.
In the height of the season, Legree did not hesitate to press
all his hands through, (Sundays and week-days alike. Why
should n't he 1 — he made more cotton by it, and gained his
wager ; and if it wore out a few more hands, he could buy bet-
ter ones. At h'rst, Tom used to read a verse or two of his
Bible, by the flicker of the fire, after he had returned from his
daily toil ; but, after the cruel treatment he received, he used
to come home so exhausted, that his head swam and his eyes
failed when he tried to read ; and he was fain to stretch him-
self down, with the others, in utter exhaustion.

Is it strange that the religious peace and trust, which had
upborne him hitherto, should give way to tossings of soul and
despondent darkness '{ The gloomiest problem of this myste-
rious life was constantly before his eyes, — souls crushed and
ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent. It was weeks and
months that Tom wrestled, in his own soul, in darkness and sor-
row. He thought of Miss Ophelia's letter to his Kentucky
friends, and would pray earnestly that God would send him
deliverance. And then he would watch, day after day, in the
vague hope of seeing somebody sent to redeem him ; and, when
nobody came, he would crush back to his soul bitter thoughts,
— that it was vain to serve God, that God had forgotten him.
He sometimes saw Gassy ; and sometimes, when summoned to
the house, caught a glimpse of the dejected form of Emmeline,
but held very little communion with either ; in fact, there was
no time for him to commune with anybody.

One evening, he was sitting, in utter dejection and prostra-
tion, by a few decaying brands, where his coarse supper was
baking. He put a few bits of brushwood on the fire, and strove
to raise the light, and then drew his worn Bible from his pocket.
There were all the marked passages, which had thrilled his soul
so often, — words of patriarchs and seers, poets and sages, who
from early time had spoken courage to man, --voices from the
great cloud of witnesses who ever surround us in the race oi
life. Had the word lost its power, or could the failing eye and
weary sense no longer answer to the touch of that mighty in-
spiration] Heavily sighing, he put it in his pocket. A coarse

XIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 463

laugh roused him ; he looked up, - - Legree was standing oppo-
site to him.

" Well, old boy," he said, " you find your religion don't work,
it seems ! I thought I should get that through your wool, at
last ! "

The cruel taunt was more than hunger and cold and naked-
ness. Tom was silent.

" You were a fool," said Legree ; " for I meant to do well by
you, when I bought you. You might have been better off than
Sambo, or Quimbo either, and had easy times ; and, instead of
getting cut up and thrashed, every day or two, ye might have
had liberty to lord it round, and cut up the other niggers ; and
ye might have had, now and then, a good warming of whiskey
punch. Come, Tom, don't you think you 'd better be reason-
able ] — heave that ar old pack of trash in the fire, and join my
church ! "

" The Lord forbid ! " said Tom, fervently.

" You see the Lord an't going to help you ; if he had been,
he would n't have let me get you ! This yer religion is all a
mess of lying trumpery, Tom. I know all about it. Ye'd
better hold to me. I 'm somebody, and can do something ! "

" No, Mas'r," said Tom ; " I '11 'hold on. The Lord may help
me, or not help ; but I '11 hold to him, and believe him to the
last ! "

" The more fool you ! " said Legree,- spitting scornfully at
him, and spurning him with his foot. " Never mind ; I '11
chase you down, yet, and bring you under, — you '11 see ! "
and Legree turned away.

When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level at
which endurance is possible, there is an instant and desperate
effort of every physical and moral nerve to throw off the weight ;
and hence the heaviest anguish often precedes a return tide of
joy and courage. So was it now with Tom. The atheistic
taunts of his cruel master sunk his before dejected soul to the
lowest ebb ; and, though the hand of faith still held to the
eternal rock, it was with a numb, despairing grasp. Tom sat,
like one stunned, at the fire. Suddenly everything around him
seemed to fade, and a vision rose before him of one crowned
with thorns, buffeted and bleeding. Tom gazed, in awe and
wonder, at the majestic patience of the face ; the deep, pathetic
eyes thrilled him to his inmost heart ; his soul woke, as, with
floods of emotion, he stretched out his hands and fell upon his

464 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

knees, — when, gradually, the vision changed : the sharp thorna
became rays of glory ; and, in splendor inconceivable, he saw
that same face bending compassionately towards him, and a
voice said, " He that overcometh shall sit down with me or
my throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with mj
Father on his throne."

How long Tom lay there, he knew not. When he came to
himself, the fire was gone out, his clothes were wet with the
chill and drenching dews ; but the dread soul-crisis was past,
and, in the joy that filled him, he no longer felt hunger, cold,
degradation, disappointment, wretchedness. From his deepest
soul, he that hour loosed and parted from every hope in the life
that now is, and offered his own will an unquestioning sacrifice
to the Infinite. Tom looked up to the silent, ever-living stars,
— types of the angelic hosts who ever look down on man ; and
the solitude of the night rung with the triumphant words of a
hymn, which he had sung often in happier days, but never with
such feeling as now : —

" The earth shall be dissolved like snow,

The sun shall cease to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Shall be forever mine.

" And when this mortal life shall fail,

And flesh and sense shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil
A life of joy and peace.

"When we 've been there ten thousand years,

Bright shining like the sun,
We 've no less days to sing God's praise,
Than when we first begun."

Those who have been familiar with the religious histories of
the slave population know that relations like what we have nar-
rated are very common among them. We have heard some
from their own lips, of a very touching and affecting character.
The psychologist tells us of a state, in which the affections and
images of the mind become so dominant and overpowering, thai
they press into their service the outward senses, and make their
give tangible shape to the inward imagining. Who shall meas
ure what an all-pervading Spirit may do with these capabilities
of our mortality, or the ways in which he may encourage the
desponding souls of the desolate 1 If the poor forgotten slave
believes that Jesus hath appeared and spoken to him, who shall

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 465

contradict him 1 Did He not say that his mission, in all ages,
was to bind up the broken-hearted, and set at liberty them that
are bruised 1

When the dim gray of dawn woke the slumberers to go
forth to the field, there was among those tattered and shiver--
ing wretches one who walked with an exultant tread ; for
firmer than the ground he trod on was his strong faith in
Almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree, try all your forces now !
Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want, and loss of all things,
shall only hasten on the process by which he shall be made a
king and a priest unto God !

From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed
the lowly heart of the oppressed one, — an ever-present
Saviour hallowed it as a temple. Past now the bleeding of
earthly regrets ; past its fluctuations of hope, and fear, and
desire; the human will, bent, and bleeding, and struggling
Jong, was now entirely merged in the Divine. So short now
seemed the remaining voyage of life, — so near, so vivid, seemed
eternal blessedness, — that life's uttermost woes fell from him
unharming.

All noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness and
alertness seemed to return to him, and a quietness which no
insult or injury could ruffle seemed to possess him.

"What the devil's got into Tom'?" Legree said to Sambo.
" Awhile ago he was all down in the mouth, and now he 's
peart as a cricket."

" Dunno, Mas'r ; gwine to run off, mebbe."

" Like to see him try that," said Legree, with a savage grin,
" would n't we, Sambo 1 "

" Guess we would ! Haw ! haw ! ho ! " said the sooty
gnome, laughing obsequiously. " Lord, de fun ! To see him
stickin' in de mud, — chasm' and tarin' through de bushes, dogs
a holdin' on to him ! Lord, I laughed fit to split, dat ar time
we cotched Molly. I thought they 'd a had her all stripped up
afore I could get 'em off. She car's de marks o' dat ar spref
yet."

"I reckon she will, to her grave," said Legree. "But now,
Sambo, you look sharp. If the nigger 's got anything of this
sort going, trip him up."

" Mas'r, let me 'lone for dat," said Sambo. " I '11 tree de
coon. Ho, ho, ho ! "

This was spoken as Legree was getting on to his horse, to go

466 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

to the neighboring town. That night, as he was returning, he
thought he would turn his horse and ride round the quarters,
and see if all was safe.

It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the
graceful China-trees lay minutely pencilled on the turf below,
and there was that transparent stillness in the air which it
seems almost unholy to disturb. Legree was at a little dis-
tance from the quarters, when he heard the voice of some one
singing. It was not a usual sound there, and he paused to
listen. A musical tenor voice sang, -

" When I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies,
I '11 bid farewell to every fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.

" Should earth against my soul engage,

And hellish darts be hurled,

Then I can smile at Satan's rage,

And face a frowning world.

" Let cares like a wild deluge come,

And storms of sorrow fall,
May I but safely reach my home,
My God, my Heaven, my All."

" So ho ! " said Legree to himself, " he thinks so, does he ft
How I hate these cursed Methodist hymns ! Here, you nigger,"
said he, coming suddenly out upon Tom, and raising his riding-
whip, " how dare you be gettin' up this yer row, when you
ought to be in bed 1 Shut yer old black gash, and get along in
with you ! "

" Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he rose
to go in.

Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom's evident hap-
piness ; and, riding up to him, belabored him over his head
and shoulders.

"There, you dog." he said, "see if you'll feel so comfort-
able, after that ! "

But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as
before, on the heart. Tom stood perfectly submissive ; and
yet Legree could not hide from himself that his power over his
bond thrall was somehow gone. And, as Tom disappeared in
his cabin, and he wheeled his horse suddenly round, there
passed through his mind one of those vivid flashes that often
send the lightning of conscience across the dark and wicked

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 467

eoul. He understood full well that it was GOD who was stand-
ing between him and his victim, and he blasphemed him.
That submissive and silent man, whom taunts, nor threats, nor
stripes, nor cruelties could disturb, roused a voice within him,
such as of old his Master roused in the demoniac soul, saying,
" What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth t —
art thou come to torment us before the time 1 "

Tom's whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy
for the poor wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it
seemed as if his life-sorrows were now over, and as if, out of
that strange treasury of peace and joy, with which he had been
endowed from above, he longed to pour out something for the
relief of their woes. It is true, opportunities were scanty ; but,
on the way to the fields, and back again, and during the hours
of labor, chances fell in his way of extending a helping hand to
the weary, the disheartened and discouraged. The poor, worn-
down, brutalized creatures, at first, could scarce comprehend
this ; but, when it was continued week after week, and month
after month, it began to awaken long-silent chords in their
benumbed hearts. Gradually and imperceptibly the strange,
silent, patient man, who was ready to bear every one's burden,
and sought help from none, — who stood aside for all, and
came last., and took least, yet was foremost to share his little
all with any who needed, — the man who, in cold nights,
would give up his tattered blanket to add to the comfort of
Borne woman who shivered with sickness, and who filled the
"baskets of the weaker ones in the field, at the terrible risk of
coming short in his own measure, — and who, though pursued
with unrelenting cruelty by their common tyrant, never joined
in uttering a word of reviling or cursing, — this man, at last,
began to have a strange power over them ; and, when the more
pressing season was past, and they were allowed again their
Sundays for their own use, many would gather together to hear
from him of Jesus. They would gladly have met to hear, and
pray, and sing, in some place, together ; but Legree would not
permit it, and more than once broke up such attempts, with
oaths and brutal execrations, — so that the blessed news had
to circulate from individual to individual. Yet who can speak
the simple joy with which some of those poor outcasts, to
whom life was a joyless journey to a dark unknown, heard of
a compassionate Redeemer and a heavenly home 1 It is the
statement of missionaries, that, of all races of the earth, none

468 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

have received the Gospel with such eager docility as the Afri-
can. The principle of reliance and unquestioning faith, which
is its foundation, is more a native element in this race than any
other ; and it has often been found among them, that a stray
seed of truth, borne on some breeze of accident into hearts the
most ignorant, has sprung up into fruit, whose abundance has
shamed that of higher and more skilful culture.

The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been well-
nigh crushed and overwhelmed, by the avalanche of cruelty
and wrong which had fallen upon her, felt her soul raised up
by the hymns and passages of Holy Writ, which this lowly
missionary breathed into her ear in intervals, as they were going
to and returning from work ; and even the half-crazed and wan-
dering mind of Gassy was soothed and calmed by his simple and
unobtrusive influences.

Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of a
life, Gassy had often resolved in her soul an hour of retribution,
when her hand should avenge on her oppressor all the injustice
and cruelty to which she had been witness, or which she had in
her own person suffered.

One night, after all in Tom's cabin were sunk in sleep, he
was suddenly aroused by seeing her face at the hole between
the logs, that served for a window. She made a silent gesture
for him to come out.

Tom came out the door. It was between one and two o'clock
at night, — broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom remarked, as
the light of the moon fell upon Gassy 's large, black eyes, that
there was a wild and peculiar glare in them, unlike their
wonted fixed despair.

" Come here, Father Tom," she said, laying her small hand
on his wrist, and drawing him forward with a force as if the
hand were of steel ; " come here, — I 've news for you."

" What, Misse Gassy 1 " said Tom, anxiously.

" Tom, would n't you like your liberty ? "

" I shall have it, Misse, in God's time," said Tom.

" Ay, but you may have it to-night," said Gassy, with a flash
of sudden energy. " Come on."

Tom hesitated.

" Come ! " said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes ou
him. " Come along ! He 's asleep — sound. I put enough
into his brandy to keep him so. I wish I 'd had more, - - 1
should n't have wanted you. But come, the back door is un-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

469

locked ; there 's an axe there, I put it there, — his room door
is open ; I '11 show you the way. I 'd a done it myself, only
my arms are so weak. Come along ! "

"Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse ! " said Tom, firmly,
stopping and holding her back, as she was pressing forward.

" But think of all these poor creatures," said Cassy. " We
might set them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, and
find- an island, and live by ourselves ; I 've heard of its being
done. Any life is better than this."

"No!" said Tom, firmly. " No ! good never comes of
wickedness. I 'd sooner chop my right hand off ! "

" Then / shall do it," said Cassy, turning.

" 0, Misse Cassy ! " said Tom, throwing himself before her,
* for the dear Lord's sake that died for ye, don't sell your pre-
vious soul to the devil, that way ! Nothing but evil will come
-of it. The Lord has n't called us to wrath. We must sull'er,
and wait his time."

470 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" Wait ! " said Gassy. " Have n't I waited 1 — waited till
iny head is dizzy and my heart sick 1 What has he made me
suffer? What has he made hundreds of poor creatures suffer1?
Is n't he wringing the life-blood out of you 'I I 'm called on ;
they call me ! His time 's come, and I '11 have his heart's
blood ! "

" No, no, no ! " said Tom, holding her small hands, which
were clenched with spasmodic violence. ".No, ye poor, lost
soul, that ye must n't do. The dear, blessed Lord never shed
no blood but his own, and that he poured out for us when we
was enemies. Lord, help us to follow his steps, and love our

enemies."

" Love ! " said Gassy, with a fierce glare ; " love such enemies !
It is n't in flesh and blood."

" JSro, Misse, it is n't," said Tom, looking up ; " but He gives
it to us, and that 's the victory. When we can love and pray
over all, and through all, the battle 's past, and the victory 's
come, — glory be to God ! " And, with streaming eyes and
choking voice, the black man looked up to heaven.

And this, 0 Africa ! latest called of nations, — called to the
crown of thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross of
agony, — this is to be thy victory ; by this shalt thou reign
with Christ when his kingdom shall come on earth.

The deep fervor of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice,
his tears, fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of the poor
woman. A softness gathered over the lurid hres of her eyes ;
she looked down, and Tom could feel the relaxing muscles of
her hands, as she said, —

" Did n't I tell you that evil spirits followed me ] 0, Father
Tom, I can't pray, - - 1 wish I could. I never have prayed
since my children were sold ! What you say must be right, I
know it must ; but when I try to pray, I can only hate and
curse. I can't pray ! "

" Poor soul ! " said Tom, compassionately. " Satan desires
to have ye, and sift ye as wheat. I pray the Lord for ye. O,
Misse Gassy, turn to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind
up the broken-hearted, and comfort all that mourn."

Gassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from her
downcast eyes.

" Misse Gassy," said Tom, in a hesitating tone, after surveying
her a moment in silence, " if ye only could get away from here,
• — if the thing was possible, — I 'd 'vise ye and Emmeliue to

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 471

do it ; that is, if ye could go without blood-guiltiness, — not
otherwise."

" Would you try it with us, Father Tom 1 "

" No," said Tom ; " time was when I would ; but the Lord 's
given me a work among these yer poor souls, and I '11 stay
with 'em and bear my cross with 'em till the end. It 's differ-
ent with you ; it 's a snare to you, - - it 's more 'n you can
stand, — and you 'd better go, if you can."

" I know no way but through the grave," said Gassy.
" There 's no beast or bird but can hnd a home somewhere ;
even the snakes and the alligators have their places to lie down
and be quiet ; but there 's no place for us. Down in the darkest
swamps, their dogs will hunt us out, and find us. Everybody
and everything is against us ; even the very beasts side against
us, — and where shall we go ] "

Tom stood silent ; at length he said, —

"Him that saved Daniel in the den of lions, — that saved
the children in the fiery furnace, — - Him that walked on the
sea, and bade the winds be still, — He 's alive yet ; and I 've
faith to believe he can deliver you. Try it, and I '11 pray, with
all my might, for you."

By what strange law of mind is it that an idea long over-
looked, and trodden underfoot as a useless stone, suddenly
sparkles out in new light, as a discovered diamond?

Cass.y had often revolved, for hours, all possible or probable
schemes of escape, and dismissed them all, as hopeless and im-
practicable ; but at this moment there flashed through her mind
a plan, so simple and feasible in all its details, as to awaken an
instant hope.

" Father Tom, I '11 try it ! " she said, suddenly.

" ArneD I " said Tom ; " the Lord help ye ! "

172 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OB,

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE STRATAGEM.

"The way of the wicked is as darkness ; he knoweth not at what he stars
bleth."

'-£h HE garret of the house that Legree occupied, like
A ) most other garrets, was a great, desolate space,
h dusty, hung with cobwebs, aud littered with cast-
off lumber. The opulent family that had inhabited
the house in the days of its splendor had imported
a great deal of splendid furniture, some of which they had
taken away with them, while some remained standing desolate
in mouldering, unoccupied rooms, or stored away in this place.
One or two immense packing-boxes, in which this furniture
was brought, stood against the sides of the garret. There was
a small window there, which let in, through its dingy, dusty
panes, a scanty, uncertain light on the tall, high-backed chairs
and dusty tables, that had once seen better days. Altogether,
it was a weird and ghostly place ; but, ghostly as it was, it
wanted not in legends among the superstitious negroes, to in-
crease its terrors. Some few years before, a negro woman, who
had incurred Legree's displeasure, was confined there for several
weeks. "What passed there, we do not say ; the negroes used
to whisper darkly to each other ; but it was known that the
body of the unfortunate creature was one day taken down from
there, and buried ; and, after that, it was said that oaths and
cursings, and the sound of violent blows, used to ring throxigh
that old garret, and mingled with wailings and groans of de-
spair. Once, when Legree chanced to overhear something of
this kind, he flew into a violent passion, and swore that the
next one that told stories about that garret should have an
opportunity of knowing what was there, for he would chain
them up there for a week. This hint was enough to repress
talking, though, of course, it did not disturb the credit of the
story in the least.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

473

Gradually, the staircase that led to the garret, and even the
passage-way to the staircase, was avoided by every one in the
bouse, from every one fearing to speak of it, and the legend
was gradually falling into desuetude. It had suddenly occurred
to Gassy to make use of the superstitious excitability, whicli
was so great in Legree, for the purpose of her liberation, and
that of her fellow-sufferer.

The sleeping-room of Gassy was directly under the garret.
One day, without consulting Legree, she suddenly took it upon
her, with some considerable ostentation, to change all the fur-
niture and appurtenances of the room to one at some consider-
able distance. The under-servants, who were called on to effect
this movement, were running and bustling about with great
zeal and confusion, when Legree returned from a ride.

" Hallo ! you Cass ! " said Legree, " what 's in the wind
now 1 "

" Nothing ; only 1 choose to have another room," -said Gassy,
doggedly.

474 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" And what for, pray 1 " said Legree.

" I choose to," said Gassy.

"The devil you do ! and what for! "

" I 'd like to get some sleep, now and then."

" Sleep ! well, what hinders your sleeping ] "

" I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear," said Gassy,
dryly.

" Speak out, you minx ! " said Legree.

" Oh ! nothing. I suppose it would n't disturb you ! Only
groans, and people scuffling, and rolling round on the garret
floor, half the night, from twelve to morning ! "

"People up garret!" said Legree, uneasily, but forcing a
laugh ; " who are they, Gassy 1 "

Gassy raised her sharp, black eyes, and looked in the face of
Legree, with an expression that went through his bones, as she
said, "To be sure, Simon, who are they ? I 'd like to have you
tell me. You don't know, I suppose ! "

With an oath, Legree struck at her with his riding-whip ;
but she glided to one side, and passed through the door, and
looking back, said, " If you '11 sleep in that room, you '11 know-
all about it. Perhaps you 'd better try it ! " and then imme-
diately she shut and locked the door.

Legree blustered and swore, and threatened to break down
the door ; but apparently thought better of it, and walked un-
easily into the sitting-room. Gassy perceived that her shaft
had struck home ; and, from that hour, with the most exquisite
address, she never ceased to continue the train of influences she
had begun.

In a knot-hole in the garret she had inserted the neck of an
old bottle, in such a manner that when there was the least wind,
most doleful and lugubrious wailing sounds proceeded from it,
which, in a high wind, increased to a perfect shriek, such as to
credulous and superstitious ears might easily seem to be that
of horror and despair.

These sounds were, from time to time, heard by the servants,
and revived in full force the memory of the old ghost legend.
A superstitious creeping horror seemed to fill the house ; and
though no one dared to breathe it to Legree, he found himself
encompassed by it, as by an atmosphere.

No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man.
The Christian is composed by the belief of a wise, all-ruling
Father, whose presence fills the void unknown with light and

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 475

order ; but to the man who has dethroned God, the spirit-land
is, indeed, in the words of the Hebrew poet, " a land of dark-
ness and the shadow of death," without any order, where the
light is as darkness. Life and death to him are haunted grounds,
tilled with goblin forms of vague and shadowy dread.

Legree had had the slumbering moral element in him roused
by his encounters with Tom, --roused, only to be resisted by
the determinate force of evil ; but still there was a thrill and
commotion of the dark, inner world, produced by every word,
or prayer, or hymn, that reacted in superstitious dread.

The influence of Cassy over him was of a strange and singular
kind. He was her owner, her tyrant and tormentor. She was,
as he knew, wholly, and without any possibility of help or re-
dress, in his hands ; and yet so it is, that the most brutal man
cannot live in constant association with a strong female influ-
ence, and not be greatly controlled by it. When he first bought
her, she was, as she had said, a woman delicately bred ; and
then he crushed her, without scruple, beneath the foot of his
brutality. But, as time, and debasing influences, and despair
hardened womanhood within her, and waked the fires of fiercer
passions, she had become in a measure his mistress, and he al-
ternately tyrannized over and dreaded her.

This influence had become more harassing and decided,
since partial insanity had given a strange, weird, unsettled cast
to all her words and language.

A night or two after this, Legree was sitting in the old sit-
ting-room, by the side of a flickering wood fire, that threw
uncertain glances round the room. It was a stormy, windy
night, such as raises whole squadrons of nondescript noises in
rickety old houses. Windows were rattling, shutters flapping,
the wind carousing, rumbling, and tumbling down the chim-
ney, and, every once in a while, puffing out smoke and ashes,
as if a legion of spirits were coming after them. Legree had
been casting up accounts and reading newspapers for some
hours, while Cassy sat in the corner, sullenly looking into the
fire. Legree laid down his paper, and seeing an old book ly-
ing on the table, which he had noticed Cassy reading, the first
part of the, evening, took it up, and began to turn it over. It
was one of those collections of stories of bloody murders,
ghostly legends, and supernatural visitations, which, coarsely
got up and illustrated, have a strange fascination for one who
once begins to read them.

476 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Legree poohed arid pished, but read, turning page after page,
till, finally, after reading some way, he threw down the hook,
with an oath.

" You don't helieve in ghosts, do you, Cass 1 " said he, taking
the tongs and settling the fire. " I thought you 'd more sense
than to let noises scare yo/t."

" No matter what I believe," said Gassy, sullenly.

" Fellows used to try to frighten ine with their yarns at sea,"
said Legree. " Never come it round me that way. I 'm too
tough for any such trash, tell ye."

Gassy sat looking intensely at him in the shadow of the
corner. There was that strange light in her eyes that always
impressed Legree with uneasiness.

"Them noises was nothing but rats and the wind," said
Legree. " Eats will make a devil of a noise. I used to hear
'em sometimes down in the hold of the ship; and wind, —
Lord's saKe ! ye can make anything out o' wind."

Gassy knew Legree was uneasy under her eyes, and, there-
fore, she made no answer, but sat fixing them on him, with
that strange, unearthly expression, as before.

" Gome, speak out, woman. - - don't you think so 1 " said
Legree.

" Can rats walk down stairs, and come walking through the
entry, and open a door when you 've locked it and set a chair
against it 1 " said Gassy ; " and come walk, walk, walking right
up to your bed, and put out their hand, so ? "

Gassy kept her glittering eyes fixed on Legree, as she spoke,
and he stared at her like a man in the nightmare, till, when
she finished by laying her hand, icy cold, on his, he sprung
back, with an oath.

" Woman ! what do you mean 1 Nobody did 1 "

" 0, no, — of course not, — did I say they did 1 " said Gassy,
with a smile of chilling derision.

" But — did — have you really seen 1 — Come, Cass, what is
it, now, — speak out ! "

" You may sleep there, yourself," said Gassy, " if you want
to know."

" Did it come from the garret, Gassy?"

" It, - - what 1 " said Gassy.

" Why, what you told of-

;< I did n't tell you anything," said Gassy, with dogged sul-
lenness.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLf.

477

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478 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OK,

Legree walked up and down the room, uneasily.

" I '11 have this yer thing examined. I '11 look into it, this
very night. I '11 take my pistols —

" Do/' said Gassy ; " sleep in that room. I 'd like to see
you doing it. Fire your pistols, — do ! "

Legree stamped his foot, and swore violently.

" Don't swear," said Gassy ; " nobody knows who may be
hearing yon. Hark ! What was that ] "

" What ] " said Legree, starting.

A heavy old Dutch clock, that stood in the corner of the
room, began, and slowly struck twelve.

For some reason or other, Legree neither spoke nor moved ;
a vague horror fell on him ; while Gassy, with a keen, sneer-
ing glitter in her eyes, stood looking at him, counting the
strokes.

" Twelve o'clock ; well, now we '11 see," said she, turning,
and opening the door into the passage-way, and standing as if
listening.

" Hark ! What 's that 1 " said she, raising her linger.

" It 's only the wind," said Legree. " Don't you hear how
cursedly it blows 1 "

" Simon, come here," said Gassy, in a whisper, laying her
hand on his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs ; " do
you know what that is 1 Hark ! "

A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came
from the garret. Legree's knees knocked together ; his face
grew white with fear.

" Had n't you better get your pistols 1 " said Gassy, with a
sneer that froze Legree's blood. " It 's time this thing was
looked into, you know. I 'd like to have you go up now ;
tliey 're at it."

" I won't go ! " said Legree, with an oath.

"Why not? There an't any such thing as ghosts, you
know ! Come ! " and Gassy flitted up the winding stairway,
laughing, and looking back after him. " Come on."

" I believe you are the devil ! " said Legree. " Come back,
you hag, — come back, Cass ! You shan't go ! "

But Gassy laughed wildly, and fled on. He heard her open
the entry doors that led to the garret. A wild gust of wind
swept down, extinguishing the candle he held in his hand,
and with it the fearful, unearthly screams ; they seemed to be
shrieked in his very ear.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 479

Legree fled frantically into the parlor, whither, in a few
moments, he was followed by Gassy, pale, calm, cold as an
avenging spirit, and with that same fearful light in her eye.

" I hope you are satisfied," said she.

" Blast you, Cass ! " said Legree.

"What for1?" said Gassy. "I only went up and shut the
doors. What 's the matter with that garret, Simon, do you
suppose ] " said she.

" None of your business ! " said Legree.

" 0, it an't 1 Well," said Gassy, " at any rate, I 'in glad 1
don't sleep under it."

Anticipating the rising of the wind, that very evening, Gassy
had been up and opened the garret window. Of course, the
moment the doors were opened, the wind had drafted down,
and extinguished the light.

This may serve as a specimen of the game that Gassy played
with Legree, until he would sooner have put his head into a
lion's mouth than to have explored that garret. Meanwhile,
in the night, when everybody else was asleep, Gassy slowly
and carefully accumulated there a stock of provisions sufficient
to afford subsistence for some time ; she transferred, article by
article, a greater part of her own and Emmeline's wardrobe.
All things being arranged, they only waited a fitting oppor-
tunity to put their plan in execution.

By cajoling Legree, and taking advantage of a good-natured
interval, Gassy had got him to take her with him to the neigh-
boring town, which was situated directly on the Eed river.
With a memory sharpened to almost preternatural clearness,
she remarked every turn in the road, and formed a mental
estimate of the time to be occupied in traversing it.

At the time when all was matured for action, our readers
may, perhaps, like to look behind the scenes, and see the final
coup d'etat.

It was now near evening. Legree had been absent, on a
ride to a neighboring farm. For many days Gassy had been
unusually gracious and accommodating in her humors ; and
Legree and she had been, apparently, on the best of terms. At
present, we may behold her and Emmeline in the room of the
latter, busy in sorting and arranging two small bundles.

" There, these will be large enough," said Gassy. " Now
put on your bonnet, and let 's start : it V just about the right
time."

4:80 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Why, they can see us yet," said Emmeline.

" I mean they shall," said Gassy, coolly. " Don't you know
that they must have their chase after us, at any rate. The
way of the thing is to be just this : -- We will steal out of tho
back door, and run down by the quarters. Sambo or Quimbc
will be sure to see us. They will give chase, and we will get
into the swamp ; then, they can't follow us any further til]
they go up and give the alarm, and turn out the dogs, and so
on ; and, while they are blundering round, and tumbling over
each other, as they always do, you and I will just slip along to
the creek, that runs back of the house, and wade along in it,
till we get opposite the back door. That will put the dogs alJ
at fault ; for scent won't lie in the water. Every one will run
out of the house to look after us, and then we '11 whip in at
the back door, and up into the garret, where I 've got a nice
bed made up in one of the great boxes. We must stay in that
garret a good while ; for, I tell you, he will raise heaven and
earth after us. He '11 muster some of those old overseers on
the other plantations, and have a great hunt ; and they '11 go
over every inch of ground in that swamp. He makes it his
boast that nobody ever got away from him. So let him hunt
at his leisure."

" Gassy, how well you have planned it ! " said Emmeline.
" Who ever would have thought of it, but you ? "

There was neither pleasure nor exultation in Cassy's eyes, —
only a despairing firmness.

" Come," she said, reaching her hand to Ermneline.

The two fugitives glided noiselessly from the house, and flit-
ted, through the gathering shadows of evening, along by the
quarters. The crescent moon, set like a silver signet in the
western sky, delayed a little the approach of night. As Gassy
expected, when quite near the verge of the1 swamps that en-
circled the plantation, they heard a voice calling to them to
stop. It was not Sambo, however, but Legree, who was pur-
suing them with violent execrations. At the sound, the fee-
bler spirit of Emmeline gave way ; and, laying hold of Cassy'f
arm, she said, " 0, Gassy, I 'm going to faint ! "

" If you do, I '11 kill you ! " said Gassy, drawing a small,
glittering stiletto, and flashing it before the eyes of the girl.

The diversion accomplished the purpose. Emmeline did not
faint, and succeeded in plunging, with Gassy, into a part of the
labyrinth of swamp, so deep and dark that it was perfectly

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

481

hopeless for Legree to think of following them, without assist-
ance.

" Well," said he, chuckling brutally : " at any rate, they 've
got themselves into a trap now — the baggages ! They 're safe
enough. They shall sweat for it ! "

u Hulloa, there ! Sambo ! Qtiimbo ! All hands ! " called
Legree, coming to the quarters, when the men and women
were just returning from work. "There's two runaways in
the swamps. I '11 give five dollars to any nigger as catches
'em. Turn out the dogs ! Turn out Tiger, and Fury, and the
rest ! "

The sensation produced by this news was immediate. Many
of the men sprang forward, officiously, to offer their services,
either from the hope of the reward, or from that cringing sub-
serviency which is one of the most baleful effects of slavery.
Some ran one way, and some another. Some were for getting
flambeaux of pine-knots. Some were uncoupling the dogs,
whose hoarse, savage bay added not a little to the animatioi
of the scene.

" Mas'r, shall we shoot 'em, if we can't cotch 'em 1 " said
Sambo, to whom his master brought, out a rifle.

" You may fire on Cass, if you like ; it 's time she was gone
to the devil, where she belongs ; but the gal, not," said Legree.

482

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" Arid now, boys, be spry and smart. Five dollars for him
that gets 'eui ; and a glass of spirits to every one of you, any-
how."

The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and
whoop, and shout, and savage yell, of man and beast, pro-
ceeded down to the swamp, followed, at some distance, by
every servant in the house. The establishment was, of a con-
sequence, wholly deserted, when Gassy and Emmeline glided
•into it the back way. The whooping and shouts of their pur-
suers were still tilling the air ; and, looking from the sitting-
room windows, Gassy and Emmeline could see the troop, with
their flambeaux, just dispersing themselves along the edge of
the swamp.

" See there ! " said Emmeline, pointing to Gassy ; " the hunt
is begun ! Look how those lights dance about ! Hark ! the
dogs! Don't you hear1? If we were only there, our chance
wouldn't be worth a picayune. 0, for pity's sake, do let's
hide ourselves. Quick ! "

" There 's no occasion for hurry," said Gassy, coolly ; " they
are all out after the hunt, — that 's the amusement of the even-
ing ! We '11 go up stairs, by and by. Meanwhile," said she,
deliberately taking a key from the pocket of a coat that Legree
had thrown down in his hurry, " meanwhile I shall take some-
thing to pay our passage."

She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, which she
counted over rapidly.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 483

" 0, don't let 's do that ! " said Emmeline.

" Don't ! " said Cassy ; " why not 1 Would you have us
starve in the swamps, or have that that will pay our way to
the free states 1 Money will do anything, girl." And, as she
spoke, she put the money in her bosom.

" It would be stealing," said Emmeline, in a distressed whis-
per.

" Stealing ! " said Cassy, with a scornful laugh. " They
who steal body and soul needn't talk to us. Every one of
these bills is stolen, — stolen from poor, starving, sweating'
creatures, who must go to the devil at last, for his protit. Let
him talk about stealing ! But come, we may as well go up
garret ; I 've got a stock of candles there, and some books to
pass away the time. You may be pretty sure they won't come
there to inquire after us. If they do, I '11 play ghost for them."

When Emmeline reached the garret, she found an immense
box, in which some heavy pieces of furniture had once been
brought, turned on its side, so that the opening faced the wall,
or rather the eaves. Cassy lit a small lamp, and, creeping round
under the eaves, they established themselves in it. It was
spread with a couple of small mattresses and some pillows ; a
box near by was plentifully stored with candles, provisions, and
all the clothing necessary to their journey, which Cassy had
arranged into bundles of an astonishingly small compass.

" There," said Cassy, as she fixed the lamp into a small hook,
which she had driven into the side of the box for that purpose ;
" this is to be our home for the present. How do you like it?"

" Are you sure they won't come and search the garret 1 "

" I 'd like to see Simon Legree doing that," said Cassy. " No,
indeed ; he will be too glad to keep away. As to the servants,
they would any of them stand and be shot, sooner than show
their faces here."

Somewhat reassured, Emmeline settled herself back on her
pillow.

" What did you mean, Cassy, by saying you would kill me ? "
she said, simply.

" I meant to stop your fainting," said Cassy, " and I did do
it. And now I tell you, Emmeline, you must make up your
mind not to faint, let what will come ; there 's no sort of need
of it. If I had not stopped you, that wretch might have had
his hands on you now."

Emmeline shuddered-

434 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

The two remained some time in silence. Gassy busied her-
self with a French book ; Emrneline, overcome with the ex-
haustion, fell into a doze, and slept some time. She was
awakened by loud shouts and outcries, the tramp of horses'
feet, and the baying of dogs. She started up, with a faint
shriek.

" Only the hunt coming back," said Gassy, coolly ; " never
fear. Look out of this knot-hole. Don't you see 'em all down
there 1 Simon has to give it up, for this night. Look, how
muddy his horse is, flouncing about in the swamp ; the dogs,
too, look rather crestfallen. Ah, my good sir, you '11 have to
try the race again and again, — the game is n't there."

" 0, don't speak a word ! " said Emmeline ; " what if they
should hear you 1 "

" If they do hear anything, it will make them very particular
to keep away," said Gassy. " No danger ; we may make any
noise we please, and it will only add to the effect."

At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the
house. Legree, cursing his ill luck, and vowing dire vengeance
on the morrow, went to bed.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

485

CHAPTEE XL.

THE MARTYR.

" Deem not the just by Heaven forgot !

Thougli life its common gifts deny, —
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,

And spurned of man, he goes to die !
For God hath marked each sorrowing day,

And numbered every bitter tear;
And heaven's long years of bliss shall pay
For all his children suifer here."

BRYANT.

HE longest way must have its close, — the gloom-
iest night will wear on to a morning. An eternal,
inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying the
day of the evil to an eternal night, and the night
of the just to an eternal day. We have walked
with our humble friend thus far in the valley of slavery ; first
through flowery fields of ease and indulgence, then through
heart-breaking separations from all that man holds dear. Again,
we have waited with him in a sunny island, where generous
hands concealed his chains with flowers ; and, lastly, we have
followed him when the last ray of earthly hope went out in
night, and seen how, in the blackness of earthly darkness, the
firmament of the unseen has blazed with stars of new and sig-
nificant lustre.

The morning star now stands over the tops of the mountains,
and gales and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day
are unclosing.

The escape of Gassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly
temper of Legree to the last degree ; and his fury, as was to be
expected, fell upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he
hurriedly announced the tidings among his hands, there was a
sudden light in Tom's eye, a sudden upraising of his hands,
that did not escape him. He saw that he did not join the
muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to do it ;
but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when

486 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would
not, in his hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.

Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a lew who had learnec
of him to pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the
fugitives.

When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-
working hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gather iiv
a deadly and desperate form. Had not this man braved him,
— steadily, powerfully, resistlessly, - - ever since he bought
him 1 Was there not a spirit in him which, silent as it was,
burned on him like the tires of perdition 1

" I hate him ! " said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his
bed ; " I hate him ! And is n't he MINE 1 Can't I do what I
like with him1? Who's to hinder, I wonder]" And Legree
clenched his fist, and shook it, as if he had something in his
hands that he could rend in pieces.

But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant ; and, although
Legree hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was
still somewhat of a restraint to him.

The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet ; to
assemble a party, from some neighboring plantations, with dogs
and guns ; to surround the swamp, and go about the hunt sys-
tematically. If it succeeded, well and good ; if not, he would
summon Tom before him, and --his teeth clenched and his

blood boiled — then he would break that fellow down, or

there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul assented.

Ye say that the interest of the master is a sufficient safe-
guard for the slave. In the fury of man's mad will, he will
wittingly, and with open eye, sell his own soul to the devil to
gain his ends ; and will he be more careful of his neighbor's
body?

" Well," said Gassy, the next day, from the garret, as she
reconnoitred through the knot-hole, " the hunt 's going to begin
again, to-day ! "

Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on
the space front of the house ; and one or two leashes of strange
dogs were struggling with the negroes who held them, baying
and barking at each other.

The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the
vicinity ; and others were some of Legree's associates at the
tavern-bar of a neighboring city, who had come for the interest
of the sport. A more hard-favored set, perhaps, could not be

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 4?7

imagined. Legree was serving brandy, profusely, round among
them, as also among the negroes, who had been detailed from
the various plantations for this service ; for it was an object to
make every service of this kind, among the negroes, as much
of a holiday as possible.

Gassy placed her ear at the knot-hole ; and, as the morning
air blew directly towards the house, she could overhear a
good deal of the conversation. A grave sneer overcast the
dark, severe gravity of her face, as she listened, and heard
diem divide out the ground, discuss the rival merits of the
.logs, give orders about tiring, and the treatment of each, in
uase of capture.

Gassy drew back ; and, clasping her hands, looked upward,
and -said, " 0, great Almighty God ! we are all sinners ; but
what have we done, more than all the rest of the world, that we
should be treated so 1 "

There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as she
spoke.

" If it was n't for you, child," she said, looking at Ernme-
line, " I 'd go out to them ; and I 'd thank any one of them
that would shoot me down ; for what use will freedom be to
me 1 Gan it give me back my children, or make me what I
used to be 1"

Emmeline, in her childlike simplicity, was half afraid of
the dark moods of Gassy. She looked perplexed, but made
no answer. She only took her hand, with a gentle, caressing
movement.

" Don't ! " said Gassy, trying to draw it away ; " you '11
get me to loving you ; and I never mean to love anything,
again ! "

" Poor Gassy ! " said Emmeline, " don't feel so ! If the
Lord gives us liberty, perhaps he '11 give you back your daugh-
ter ; at any rate, I '11 be like a daughter to you. I know I '11
never see my poor old mother again ! I shall love you, Gassy,
whether you love me or not ! "

The gentle, childlike spirit conquered. Gassy sat down
by her, put her arm round her neck, stroked her soft, brown
hair ; and Emmeline then wondered at the beauty of her mag-
nificent eyes, now soft with tears.

" O, Em ! " said Gassy, " I 've hungered for my children,
and thirsted for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them 'i
Here ! here ! " she said, striking her breast, " it 's all desolate,

488 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

all empty ! If God would give me back my children, then I
could pray."

" You must trust him, Gassy," said Emmeline ; " he is our
Father ! "

" His wrath is upon us," said Gassy ; " he has turned away

in anger."

" No, Gassy ! He will be good to us ! Let us hope in
him," said Emmeline, — "I always have had hope."

The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccess-
ful ; and, with grave, ironic exultation. Gassy looked down oit
Legree, as, weary and dispirited, he alighted from his horse.

" Now, Quimbo," said Legree, as he stretched himself down
in the sitting-room, " you jest go and walk that Tom up here,
right away ! The old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole
matter ; and I '11 have it out of his old black hide, or I '11 know
the reason why ! "

Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were
joined in one mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree
had told them, at first, that he had bought him for a general
overseer, in his absence ; and this had begun an ill will, on
their part, which had increased, in their debased and servile
natures, as they saw him becoming obnoxious to their master's
displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed, with a will, to exe-
cute his orders.

Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart ; for he
knew all the plan of the fugitives' escape, and the place of
their present concealment ; — he knew the deadly character
of the man he had to deal with, and his despotic power. But
he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than betray the
helpless.

He set his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said,
" Into thy hands I commend my spirit ! Thou hast redeemed
me, 0 Lord God of truth ! " and then quietly yielded himself
to the rough, brutal grasp with which Quimbo seized him.

" Ay, ay ! " said the giant, as he dragged him along ; " ye '11
cotch it, now ! I'll boun' MasVs back 's \\phighf No sneak-
ing out, now ' Tell ye, ye '11 get it, and no mistake ! See how
ye '11 look, now, helpin' Mas'r's niggers to run away ! See what
ye '11 get ! "

The savage words none of them reached that ear ! — a highei

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 489

voice there was saying, " Fear not them that kill the body,
and, after that, have no more that they can do." Nerve and
bone of that poor man's body vibrated to those words, as if
touched by the linger of God ; and he felt the strength of a
jhousand souls in one. As he passed along, the trees and
bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degra-
dation, seemed to whirl by him as the landscape by the rush-
ing car. His soul throbbed, — his home was in sight, — and
the hour of release seemed at hand.

" Well, Tom ! " said Legree, walking up, and seizing him
grimly by the collar of his coat, and speaking through his
teeth, in a paroxysm of determined rage, " do you know I 've
made up my mind to KILL you 1 "

"It's very likely, Mas'r," said Tom, calmly.

" I have," said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, " done
—just — that — thing, Tom, unless you '11 tell me what you
know about these yer gals ! "

Tom stood silent.

" D' ye hear '? " said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that
of an incensed lion. " Speak ! "

" / han't got nothing to tell, Mas'r" said Tom, with a slow,
firm, deliberate utterance.

" Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don't
know?" said Legree.

Tom was silent.

" Speak ! " thundered Legree, striking him furiously. " Do
you know anything 1 "

" I know, Mas'r ; but I can't tell anything. / can die ! "

Legree drew in a long breath ; and, suppressing his rage,
took Tom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his,
said, in a terrible voice, " Hark 'e. Tom ! — ye think, 'cause
I've let you off before, I don't mean what I say; but, this
time, I 've made up my mind, and counted the cost. You 've
always stood it out agin me: now, I '11 conquer ye or kill ye!
- — one or t' other. I '11 count every drop of blood there is in
you, and take 'em, one by one, till ye give up ! "

Tom looked up to his master, and answered, " Mas'r, if you
was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I 'd give
ye my heart's blood ; and, if taking every drop of blood in this
poor old body would save your precious soul, I 'd give 'em freely,
as the Lord gave his for me. 0, Mas'r ! don't bring this great
sin on your soul ! It will hurt you mere than 't will me ! Do

490 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

the worst you can, my troubles '11 be over soon ; but, if ye
don't repent, yours won't never end ! "

Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull
of a tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment's blank
pause. Legree stood aghast, and looked at Tom ; and there
was such a silence that the tick of the old clock could be heard,
measuring, with silent touch, the last moments of mercy and
probation to that hardened heart.

It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause, —
one irresolute, relenting thrill, — and the spirit of evil came
back, with sevenfold vehemence; and Legree, foaming with
rage, smote his victim to the ground.

*****

Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and
heart. What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear.
What brother-man and brother-Christian must suffer, cannot
be told us, even in our secret chamber, it so harrows up the
soul ! And yet, 0 my country ! these things are done under
the shadow of thy laws ! 0, Christ ! thy church sees them,
almost in silence !

But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an in-
strument of torture, degradation, and shame, into a symbol of
glory, honor, and immortal life; and, where his spirit is,
neither degrading stripes, nor blood, nor insults can make
the Christian's last struggle less than glorious.

Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit
was bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal
stripes ?

Nay ! There stood by him ONE, — seen by him alone, —
" like unto the Son of God."

The tempter stood by him, too, - - blinded by furious, des-
potic will, — every moment pressing him to shun that agony
by the betrayal of the innocent. But the brave, true heart
was firm on the Eternal Eock. Like his Master, he knew that,
if he saved others, himself he could not save ; nor could utmost
extremity wring from him words, save of prayer and holy trust.
_ " He 's most gone, Mas'r," said Sambo, touched, in spite of
himself, by the patience of his victim.

" Pay away, till he gives up ! Give it to him ! — give it
to him ! " shouted Legree. " I '11 take every drop of blood he
has, unless he confesses ! "

Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. " Ye

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

491

poor miserable crittur ! " he said, " there an't no more ye can
do ! I forgive ye, with all my soul ! " and he fainted entirely
away.

" I b'lieve, my soul, he 's done for, finally," said Legree,
stepping forward, to look at him. " Yes, he is ! Well, his
mouth 's shut up, at last, -- that 's one comfort ! "

Yes, Legree ; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul 1
that soul, past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the
tire that never shall be quenched is already burning !

Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and
pious prayers had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted
blacks, who had been the instruments of cruelty upon him ;
and, the instant Legree withdrew, they took him down, and,
in their ignorance, sought to call him back to life, — as if that
were any favor to him.

" Sartin, we 's been doin' a drefful wicked thing ! " said
Sambo ; " hopes Mas'r '11 have to 'count for it, and not we."

They washed his wounds, — they provided a rude bed, of
some refuse cotton, for him to lie down on ; and one of them,

stealing up to the house, begged a drink of brandy of Legree,
pretending that he was tired, and wanted it for himself. He
brought it back, and poured it down Tom's throat.

" O, Tom ! " said Quimbo, " we 's been awful wicked to ye J "

492 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" I forgive ye, with all uiy heart ! " said Tom, faintly.

" O, Toin ! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow 1 " said Sambo,
- Jesus, that 's been a standin' by you so, all this night ! -
Who is he?"

The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured
forth a few energetic sentences of that wondrous One, --his
life, his death, his everlasting presence, and power to save.

They wept, — both the two savage men.

" Why did n't I never hear this before ? " said Sambo ; " but
I do believe ! — I can't help it ! Lord Jesus, have mercy on
as!"

" Poor critturs ! " said Tom, " I 'd be willing to bar all I
have, if it '11 only bring ye to Christ ! 0, Lord ! give me these
two more souls, I pray ! "

That prayer was answered 1

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

493

CHAPTEE XLI.

THE YOUNG MASTER.

WO days after, a young inan drove a light wagon
up through the avenue of China-trees, and, throw-
ing the reins hastily on the horses' neck, sprang
out and inquired for the owner of the place.

It was George Shelby ; and, to show how he
came to he there, we must go back in our story.

The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some un-
fortunate accident, been detained, for a month or two, at some
remote post-office, before it reached its destination ; and, of
course, before it was received, Tom was already lost to view
among the distant swamps of the Red river.

Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern ;
but any immediate action upon it was an impossibility. She
was then in attendance on the sick-bed of her husband, who
lay delirious in the crisis of a fever. Master George Shelby,
who, in the interval, had changed from a boy to a tall young
man, was her constant and faithful assistant, and her only reli-
ance in superintending his father's affairs. Miss Ophelia had
taken the precaution to send them the name of the lawyer who
did business for the St. Clares ; and the most that, in the
emergency, could be done, was to address a letter of inquiry
to him. The sudden death of Mr. Shelby, a few days after,
brought, of course, an absorbing pressure of other interests for
a season.

Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife's ability, by
appointing her sole executrix upon his estates ; and thus imme-
diately a large and complicated amount of business was brought
upon her hands.

Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to the
work of straightening the entangled web of affairs ; and she and
George were for some time occupied with collecting and exam-
ining accounts, selling property, and settling debts ; for Mrs.

494 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Shelby was determined that everything should be brought into
tangible and recognizable shape, let the consequences to her
prove what they might. In the mean time, they received a
letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had referred them,
saying that he knew nothing of the matter ; that the man was
sold at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the money,
he knew nothing of the affair.

Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result ;
and, accordingly, some six months after, the latter, having
business for his mother, down the river, resolved to visit New
Orleans, in person, and push his inquiries, in hopes of discov-
ering Tom's whereabouts, and restoring him.

After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest ac-
cident, George fell in with a man, in New Orleans, who hap-
pened to be possessed of the desired information ; and with his
money in his pocket, our hero took steamboat for Red river,
resolving to find out and repurchase his old friend.

He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Le-
gree in the sitting-room.

Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.

" I understand," said the young man, " that you bought, in
New Orleans, a boy, named Tom. He used to be on my father's
place, and I came to see if I couldn't buy him back."

Legree's brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately:
" Yes, I did buy such a fellow, — and a h — 1 of a bargain I had
of it, too ! The most rebellious, saucy, impudent dog ! Set up
my niggers to run away ; got off two gals, worth eight hundred
or a thousand dollars apiece. He owned to that, and, when I
bid him tell me where they was, he up and said he knew, but
he would n't tell ; and stood to it, though I gave him the
cussedest flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I b'lieve he 's trying
to die ; but I don't know as he '11 make it out."

"Where is he?" said George, impetuously. "Let me see
him." The cheeks of the young man were crimson, and his
eyes flashed fire ; but he prudently said nothing, as yet.

" He 's in dat ar shed," said a little fellow, who stood holding
George's horse.

Legree kicked the boy, and swore at him ; but George, with-
out saying another word, turned and strode to the spot.

Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night ; not suf-
fering, for every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed.
He lay, for the most part, in a quiet stupor ; for the laws of a

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 495

powerful and well-knit frame would not at once release the im-
prisoned spirit. By stealth, there had been there, in the dark-
ness of the night, poor desolated creatures, who stole from their
scanty hours' rest, that they might repay to him some of those
ministrations of love in which he had always been so abundant.
Truly, those poor disciples had little to give, — only the cup of
cold water ; but it was given with full hearts.

Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face, — tears of
late repentance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying
love and patience had awakened to repentance, and bitter prayers,
breathed over him to a late-found Saviour, of whom they scarce
knew more than the name, but whom the yearning ignorant
heart of man never implores in vain.

Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and,
by overhearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made for
her and Emmeline, had been there, the night before, defying
the danger of detection ; and, moved by the few last words
which the affectionate soul had yet strength to breathe, the long
winter of despair, the ice of years, had given way, and the dark,
despairing woman had wept and prayed.

When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and
his heart sick.

" Is it possible, — is it possible 1 " said he, kneeling clown "by
him. " Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend ! "

Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying.
He moved his head gently, smiled, and said, -

"Jesus can make a dying Led
Feel soft as downy pillows are."

Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from the young
man's eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.

" 0, dear Uncle Tom ! do wake, — do speak once more !
Look up ! Here 's Mas'r George, - - your own little Mas'r
George. Don't you know me '( "

" Mas'r George ! " said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking
in a feeble voice. "Mas'r George ! " He looked bewildered.

Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul ; and the vacant eye
became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the
hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.

" Bless the Lord ! it is, — it is, — it 's all I wanted ! They
have n't forgot me. It warms my soul ; it does my old heart
good ! Now I shall die content ! Bless the Lord, 0 my soul ! "

490

UXCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

" You shan't die ! you must n't die, nor think of it. 1 've
come to buy you, and take you home," said George, with im-
petuous vehemence.

"0, Mas'r George, ye 're too late. The Lord's bought me,
and is going to take me home, — and I long to go. Heaven if
better than Kintuck."

" 0, don't die ! It '11 kill me ! — it '11 break my heart to
think what you 've suffered, — and lying in this old shed, here !
Poor, poor fellow ! "

" Don't call me poor fellow ! " -said Tom, solemnly. " I have
been poor fellow ; but that 's all past and gone, now. I 'm
right in the door, going into glory ! 0, Mas'r George ! Heaven
has come ! I 've got the victory ! — the Lord Jesus has given
it to me ! Glory be to his name ! "

George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power,
with which these broken sentences were uttered. He sat gaz-
ing in silence.

Tom grasped his hand, and continued, — " Ye must n't, now
tell Chloe, poor soul! how ye found me; — -'twould be so
drefful to her. Only tell her ye found me going into glory ;
and that I could n't stay for no one. And tell her the Lord 's
stood by me everywhere and al'ays, and made everything light
and easy. And 0, the poor chil'en, and the baby ! — my old
heart 's been most broke for 'em, time and agin ! Tell 'em all

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 497

to follow me — follow me ! Give my love to Mas'r, and dear
good Missis, and everybody in the place ! Ye don't know !
'Pears like I loves 'em all ! I loves every creatur' everywhar !
— it 's nothing but love ! 0, Mas'r George, what a thing 't if
to be a Christian ! "

At this moment, Legree sauntered up to the door of tht
^hed, looked in, with a dogged air of ali'ected carelessness, and
turned away.

" The old Satan ! " said George, in his indignation. " It '
a comfort to think the devil will pay him for this, some o
these days ! "

" 0, don't ! — 0, ye must n't ! " said Tom, grasping his
hand ; " he 's a poor mis'able crittur ! it 's awful to think on 't !
O, if he only could repent, the Lord would forgive him now ;
but I 'm 'feard he never will ! ''

" I hope he won't ! " said George; " I never want to see him
in heaven ! "

" Hush, Mas'r George ! — it worries me ! Don't feel so !
He an't done me no real harm, — only opened the gate of the
kingdom for me ; that 's all ! "

At this moment, the sudden flush of strength which the joy
of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man
gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him ; he closed his
eyes ; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his
face, that told the approach of other worlds.

He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations,
and his broad chest rose and fell, heavily. The expression of
his face was that of a conqueror.

"Who --who — who shall separate us from the love of
Christ 1 " he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weak-
ness ; and, with a smile, he fell asleep.

George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that
the place was holy ; and, as he closed the lifeless eyes, and
rose up from the dead, only one thought possessed him, — that
expressed by his simple old friend, — " What a thing it is to
be a Christian ! "

He turned ; Legree was standing, sullenly, behind him.

Something in that dying scene had checked the natura.
fierceness of youthful passion. The presence of the man was
simply loathsome to George ; and he felt only an impulse to
get away from him, with as few words as possible.

Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, point-

498 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

ing to the dead, " You have got all you ever can of him.
What shall I pay you for the body 1 I will take it away, and
bury it decently."

" I don't sell dead niggers," said Legree, doggedly. " You
are welcome to bury him where and when you like."

" Boys," said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or
three negroes, who were looking at the body, " help rue lift
him up, and carry him to my wagon ; and get me a spade.'"

One of them ran for a spade ; the other two assisted George
to carry the body to the wagon.

George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not
countermand his orders, but stood, whistling, with an air of
forced unconcern. He sulkily followed them to where the
wagon stood at the door.

George spread his cloak in the wagon, and had the body
carefully disposed of in it, — moving the seat, so as to give it
room. Then he turned, fixed his eyes on Legree, and said,
with forced composure, -

" I have not, as yet, said to you what I think of this most
atrocious affair ; — this is not the time and place. But, sir,
this innocent blood shall have justice. I will proclaim this
murder. I will go to the very hrst magistrate, and expose
you."

" Do ! " said Legree, snapping his fingers, scornfully. " I 'd
like to see you doing it. Where you going to get witnesses'?
• — how you going to prove it 1 — Come, now ! "

George saw, at once, the force of this defiance. There was
hot a white person on the place ; and, in all southern courts,
the testimony of colored blood is nothing. He felt, at that
moment, as if he could have rent f.he heavens with his heart's
indignant cry for justice ; but in vain.

" After all, what a fuss, for a dead nigger ! " said Legree.

The word was as a spark to a powder-magazine. Prudence
was never a cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. George
turned, and, with one indignant blow, knocked Legree flat
upon his face ; and, as he stood over him, blazing with wrath
and defiance, he would have formed no bad personification of
his great namesake triumphing over the dragon.

Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked
down. If a man lays them fairly flat in the dust, they seem
immediately to conceive a respect for him ; and Legree was one
of this sort. As he rose, therefore, and brushed the dust from

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

499

Jiis clothes, he eyed the slowly retreating wagon with some
evident consideration ; nor did he open his mouth till it was
out of sight.

Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had noticed
a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees ; there they made
the grave.

"Shall we take off the cloak, Mas'r ?" said the negroes,
when the grave was ready.

"No, no, --bury it with him! It 's all I can give you,
now, poor Tom, and you shall have it."

They laid him in ; and the men shovelled away, silently.
They banked it up, and laid green turf over it.

" You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter into
the hand of each. They lingered about, however.

" If young Mas'r would please buy us — " said one.

•'' We 'd serve him so faithful ! " said the other.

" Hard times here, Mas'r ! " said the first. " Do, Mas'r, buy
us, please ! "

" I can't, - - I can't ! " said George, with difficulty, motion-
ing them on" ; " it 's impossible ! "

The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence.

" Witness, eternal God ! " said George, kneeling on the
grave of his poor friend ; " 0, witness, that, from this hour, I

500

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

will do what one man can to drive out this curse of slavery
from my land ! "

There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our
friend. He needs none ! His Lord knows where he lies, and
will raise him up, immortal, to appear with him when he shaU
appear in his glory.

Pity him not ! Such a life and death is not for pity ! Not
in the riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God ; but
in self-denying, suffering love ! And blessed are the men
whom he calls to fellowship with him, bearing their cross after
him with patience. Of such it is written, " Blessed are they
'hat mourn, for they shall be comforted."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 501

CHAPTER XLII.

AN AUTHENTIC GHOST STORY.

:OE some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were
uncommonly rife, about this time, among the ser-
vants on Legree's place.

It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in
the dead of night, had been heard descending the
garret stairs, and patrolling the house. In vain the doors of
the upper entry had been locked ; the ghost either carried a
duplicate key in its pocket, or availed itself of a ghost's imme-
morial privilege of coming through the keyhole, and promenaded
as before, with a freedom that was alarming.

Authorities were somewhat divided, as to the outward form
of the spirit, owing to a custom quite prevalent among negroes,
— and, for aught we know, among whites, too, — of invariably
shutting the eyes, and covering up heads under blankets, petti-
coats, or whatever else might come in use for a shelter, on these
occasions. Of course, as everybody knows, when the bodily
eyes are thus out of the lists, the spiritual eyes are uncommonly
vivacious and perspicuous ; and, therefore, there were abundance
of full-length portraits of the ghost, abundantly sworn and
testified to, which, as is often the case with portraits, agreed
with each other in no particular, except the common family
peculiarity of the ghost tribe, — the wearing of a white sheet.
The poor souls were not versed in ancient history, and did not
know that Shakespeare had authenticated this costume, by
telling how

" The sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome. "

And, therefore, their all hitting upon this is a striking fact in
pneumatology, which we recommend to the attention of spiritual
tnedia generally.

Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that

502 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

a tall figure in a white sheet did walk, at the most approved
ghostly hours, around the Legree premises, — pass out the doors,
glide about the house, — disappear at intervals, and, reappear
ing, pass up the silent stairway, into that fatal garret ; and
that, in the morning, the entry doors were all found shut and
locked as firm as ever.

Legree could not help overhearing this whispering ; and it
was all the more exciting to him, from the pains that were
taken to conceal it from him. He drank more brandy than
usual ; held up his head briskly, and swore louder than ever in
the daytime ; but he had bad dreams, and the visions of his
head on his bed were anything but agreeable. The night after
Tom's body had been carried away, he rode to the next town
for a carouse, and had a high one. Got home late and tired ;
locked his door, took out the key, and went to bed.

After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down,
a human soul is an awful ghostly, unquiet possession for a bad
man to have. Who knows the metes and bounds of it 1 Who
knows all its awful perhapses, — those shudderings and trem-
blings, which it can no more live down than it can outlive its
own eternity ! What a fool is he who locks his door to keep
out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet
alone, — whose voice, smothered far down, and piled over with
mountains of earthliness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet of
doom !

But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it ; he set
a night-lamp at the head of his bed ; and he put his pistols
there. He examined the catches and fastenings of the windows,
and then swore he " did n't care for the devil and all his angels,"
and went to sleep.

Well, he slept, for he was tired, — slept soundly. But finally. [
there came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehension
of something dreadful hanging over him. It was his mother's
shroud, he thought ; but Gassy had it, holding it up, and show-
ing it to him. He heard a confused noise of screams and*
groanings ; and, with it all, he knew he was asleep, and he1
struggled to wake himself. He was half awake. He was sure
something was coining into his room. He knew the door was
opening, but he could not stir hand or foot. At last he turned,
with a start ; the door was open, and he saw a hand putting
out his light.

It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it ! —

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

503

something white, gliding in ! He heard the still rustle of its
ghostly garments. It stood still by his bed ; — a cold hand
touched his ; a voice said, three times, in a low, fearful whis-
per, " Come ! come ! come ! " And, while he lay sweating with

terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was gone. He
sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. It was shut and
locked, and the man fell down in a swoon.

After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever before.
He no longer drank cautiously, prudently, but imprudently and
recklessly.

There were reports around the country, soon after, that he
was sick and dying. Excess had brought on that frightful
disease that seems to throw the lurid shadows of a coming ret-
ribution back into the present life. None could bear the hor-
rors of that sick-room, when he raved and screamed, and spoke
of sights which almost stopped the blood of those who heard
him ; and, at his dying bed, stood a stern, white, inexorable
figure, saying, " Come ! come ! come .' "

504 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this vision
appeared to Legree, the house-door was found open in the
morning, and some of the negroes had seen two white figures
gliding down the avenue towards the high-road.

It was near sunrise when Gassy and Emmeline paused, for a
moment, in a little knot of trees near the town.

Gassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanish
ladies, — wholly in black. A small black bonnet on her head,
covered by a veil thick with embroidery, concealed her face.
It had been agreed that, in their escape, she was to personate
the character of a Creole lady, and Emmeline that of her
servant.

Brought up, from early life, in connection with the highest
society, the language, movements, and air of Gassy were all in
agreement with this idea ; and she had still enough remaining
with her, of a once splendid wardrobe, and sets of jewels, to
enable her to personate the thing to advantage.

She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had
noticed trunks for sale, and purchased a handsome one. This
she requested the man to send along with her. And, accord-
ingly, thus escorted by a boy wheeling her trunk, and Emme-
line behind her, carrying her carpet-bag and sundry bundles,
she made her appearance at the small tavern, like a lady of
consideration.

The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was George
Shelby, who was staying there, awaiting the next boat.

Gassy had remarked the young man from her loophole in
the garret, and seen him bear away the body of Tom, and ob-
served, with secret exultation, his rencontre with Legree. Sub-
sequently, she had gathered, from the conversations she had
overheard among the negroes, as she glided about in her ghostly
disguise, after nightfall, who he was, and in what relation he
stood to Tom. She, therefore, felt an immediate accession of
confidence, when she found that he was, like herself, awaiting
the next boat.

Cassy's air and manner, address, and evident command of
•money, prevented any rising disposition to suspicion in the
hotel. People never inquire too closely into those who are fair
on the main point, of paying well, — a thing which Gassy had
foreseen when she provided herself with money.

In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along,
and George Shelby handed Gassy aboard, with the politeness

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 505

which comes naturally to every Kentuckian, and exerted him-
self to provide her with a good state-room.

Gassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, during
the whole time they were on Red river ; and was waited on,
with obsequious devotion, by her attendant.

When they arrived at the Mississippi river, George, having
learned that the course of the strange lady was upward, like
his own, proposed to take a state-room for her on the same
boat with himself, — good-naturedly compassionating her fee-
ble health, and desirous to do what he could to assist her.

Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred to the
good steamer Cincinnati, and sweeping up the river under a
powerful head of steam.

Cassy's health was much better. She sat upon the guards,
came to the table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a lady
that must have been very handsome.

From the moment that George got the first glimpse of her
face, he was troubled with one of those fleeting and indefinite
likenesses, which almost everybody can remember, and has
been, at times, perplexed with. He could not keep himself
from looking at her, and watching her perpetually. At table,
or sitting at her state-room door, still she would encounter the
young man's eyes fixed on her, and politely withdrawn, when
she showed, by her countenance, that she was sensible of the
observation.

Gassy became uneasy. She began to think that he suspected
something ; and finally resolved to throw herself entirely on
his generosity, and intrusted him with her whole history.

George was heartily disposed to sympathize with any one
who had escaped from Legree's plantation, — • a place that he
could not remember or speak of with patience, — and, with the
courageous disregard of consequences which is characteristic of
his age and state, he assured her that he would do all in his
power to protect and bring them through.

The next state-room to Cassy's was occupied by a French
lady, named De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little
daughter, a child of some twelve summers.

This lady, having gathered, from George's conversation, that
he was from Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to cultivate
his acquaintance ; in which design she was seconded by the
graces of her little girl, who was about as pretty a plaything as
ever diverted the weariness of a fortnight's trip on a steamboat.

506 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

George's chair was often placed at her state-room door ; and
Gassy, as she sat upon the guards, could hear their conversation.

Madame de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to
Kentucky, where she said she had resided in a former period
of her life. George discovered, to his surprise, that her former
residencs must have been in his own vicinity ; and her inquiries
showed a knowledge of people and things in his region, that
was perfectly surprising to him.

" Do you know," said Madame de Thoux to him, one day,
'" of any man, in your neighborhood, of the name of Harris 1 "

" There is an old fellow, of that name, lives not far from my
father's place," said George. : We never have had much inter-
course with him, though."

"He is a large slave-owner, I believe," said Mad&me de
Thoux, with a manner which seemed to betray more interest
than she was exactly willing to show.

" He is," said George, looking rather surprised at her manner.

" Did you ever know of his having — perhaps, you may have
heard of his having a mulatto boy, named George 1 "

"0, certainly, --George Harris, — I know him well; he
married a servant of my mother's, but has escaped, now, to
Canada."

" He has]" said Madame de Thoux, quickly. "Thank God !"

George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing.

Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst
into tears.

" He is my brother," she said.

' Madame ! " said George, with a strong accent of surprise.

" Yes," said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head, proudly, and
wiping her tears ; " Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my brother ! "

" I am perfectly astonished," said George, pushing back his
chair a pace or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux.

" I was sold to the south when he was a boy," said she.
"I was bought by a good and generous man. He took me
with him to the West Indies, set me free, and married me. It
is but lately that he died ; and I was coming up to Kentucky,
to see if I could find and redeem my brother."

" I have heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold
south," said George.

" Yes, indeed ! I am the one," said Madame de Thoux ; —
" tell me what sort of a-

" A very fine young man," said George, "notwithstanding

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 507

the curse of slavery that lay on him. He sustained a first-rate
character, both for intelligence and principle. I know, you
see," he said, " because he married in our family."

" What sort of a girl ? " said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.

" A treasure," said George ; " a beautiful, intelligent, amia-
ble girl. Very pious. My mother had brought her up, and
trained her as carefully, almost, as a daughter. She could read
and write, embroider and sew, beautifully ; and was a beautiful
singer."

"Was she born in your house1?" said Madame de Thoux.

" No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New
Orleans, and brought her up as a present to mother. She was-
about eight or nine years old, then. Father would never tell
mother wh^t he gave for her ; but, the other day, in looking
over his old papers, we came across the bill of sale. He paid
an extravagant sum for her, to be sure. I suppose, on account
of her extraordinary beauty."

George sat with his back to Gassy, and did not see the ab-
sorbed expression of her countenance, as he was giving these
details.

At this point in the story, she touched his arm, and, with a
face perfectly white with interest, said, " Do you know the
names of the people he bought her of? "

" A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the princi-
pal in the transaction. At least, I think that was the name on
the bill of sale."

" O, my God ! " said Gassy, and fell insensible on the floor
of the cabin.

George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de Thoux.
Though neither of them could conjecture what was the cause of
Cassy's fainting, still they made all the tumult which is proper
in such cases ; — George upsetting a wash-pitcher, and break-
ing two tumblers, in the warmth of his humanity ; and various
ladies in the cabin, hearing that somebody had fainted, crowded
the state-room door, and kept out all the air they possiblv
could, so that, on the whole, everything was done that could
be expected.

Poor Gassy ! when she recovered, turned her face to the
wall, and wept and sobbed like a child, - - perhaps, mother,
you can tell what she was thinking of ! Perhaps you cannot,

- but she felt as sure, in that hour, that God had had mercy
on her, and that she should see her daughter, — as she did,
months afterwards, — when — but we anticipate.

508 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

CHAPTEE XLIII.

RESULTS.

rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby,
interested, as any other young man might be, by
the romance of the incident, no less than by feel-
ings of humanity, was at the pains to send to
__ Gassy the bill of sale of Eliza, whose date and

name all corresponded with her own knowledge of facts, and
left no doubt upon her mind as to the identity of her child.
It remained now only for her to trace out the path of the fugi-
tives.

Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the sin-
gular coincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immediately to
Canada, and began a tour of inquiry among the stations, where
the numerous fugitives from slavery are located. At Amherst-
burg they found the missionary with whom George and Eliza
had taken shelter, on their first arrival in Canada ; and through
him were enabled to trace the family to Montreal.

George and Eliza had now been five years free. George had
found constant occupation in the shop of a worthy machinist,
where he had been earning a competent support for his family,
which, in the mean time, had been increased by the addition
of another daughter.

Little Harry — a fine bright boy — had been put to a good
school, and was making rapid proficiency in knowledge.

The worthy pastor of the station, in Amherstburg, where
George had first landed, was so much interested in the state-
ments of Madame de Thoux and Gassy, that he yielded to the
solicitations of the former, to accompany them to Montreal, in
their search, — she bearing all the expense of the expedition.

The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in the
outskirts of Montreal ; the time, evening. A cheerful fire
blazes on the hearth ; a tea-table, covered with a snowy cloth,
utands prepared for *he evening meal. In one corner of the

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.

509

room was a table covered with a green cloth, where was an open
writing-desk, pens, paper, and over it a shelf of well-selected
books.

This was George's study. The same zeal for self-improve-
ment, which led him to steal the much coveted arts of reading
and writing, amid all the toils and discouragements of his earl^
life, still led him to devote all his leisure time to self-cultivation.

At this present time, he is seated at the table, making notes
i'rom a volume of the family library he has been reading.

"Come, George," says Eliza, "you've been gone all day.
Do put down that book, and let 's talk, while I 'in getting tea,
— do."

And little Eliza seconds the effort, by toddling up to her
father, and trying to pull the book out of his hand, and install
herself on his knee as a substitute.

" 0, yon little witch ! " says George, yielding, as, in such
circumstances, man always must.

" That 's right," says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf ol
bread. A little older she looks ; her form a little fuller ; her

510 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OK,

air more matronly than of yore ; but evidently contented and
happy as woman need be.

" Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum, to-
day ? " says George, as he laid his hand on his son's head.

Harry has lost his long curls ; but he can never lose those
eyes and eyelashes, and that fine, bold brow, that flushes with
triumph, as he answers, " I did it, every bit of it, myself,
father ; and nobody helped me ! "

" That 's right," says his father ; " depend on yourself, my
son. You have a better chance than ever your poor father
had."

At this moment, there is a rap at the door ; and Eliza goes
and opens it. The delighted — " Why ! -- this you 1 " - calls
up her husband ; and the good pastor of Amherstburg is wel-
comed. There are two more women with him, and Eliza asks
them to sit down.

Now, if the truth must be told, the honest pastov had ar-
ranged a little programme, according to which this affair was to
develop itself; and, on the way up, all had very cautiously and
prudently exhorted each other not to let things out, except ac-
cording to previous arrangement.

What was the good man's consternation, therefore, just as he
had motioned to the ladies to be seated, and was taking out his
pocket-handkerchief to wipe his mouth, so as to proceed to his
introductory speech in good order, when Madame de Thoux
upset the whole plan, by throwing her arms around George's
neck, and letting all out at once, by saying, " O, George ! don't
you know me 1 I 'm your sister Emily."

Gassy had seated herself more composedly, and would have
carried on her part very well, had not little Eliza suddenly ap-
peared before her in exact shape and form, every outline and
curl, just as her daughter was when she saw her last. The lit-
tle thing peered up in her face ; and Gassy caught her up ir
her arms, pressed her to her bosom, saying, what at the moment
she really believed, " Darling, I 'm your mother ! "

In fact, it was a troiiblesome matter to do up exactly in
proper order ; but the good pastor, at last, succeeded in getting
everybody quiet, and delivering the speech with which he had
intended to open the exercises ; and in which, at last, he suc-
ceeded so well, that his whole audience were sobbing about
him in a manner that ought to satisfy any orator, ancient 01
modern.

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 511

They knelt together, and the good man prayed, — for then
are some feelings so agitated and tumultuous, that they can
find rest only by being poured into the bosom of Almighty love,
— and then, rising up, the new-found family embraced each
other, with a holy trust in Him, who from such peril and dan-
gers, and by such unknown ways, had brought them together.

The note-book of a missionary, among the Canadian fugitives,
contains truth stranger than fiction. How can it be otherwise,
when a system prevails which whirls families and scatters their
members, as the wind whirls and scatters the leaves of autumn ]
These shores of refuge, like the eternal shore, often unite again,
in glad communion, hearts that for long years have mourned
each other as lost. And affecting beyond expression is the
earnestness with which every new arrival among them is met,
if, perchance, it may bring tidings of mother, sister, child, or
wife, still lost to view in the shadows of slavery.

Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of
romance, when, defying torture, and braving death itself, the
fugitive voluntarily threads his way back to the terrors and
perils of that dark land, that he may bring out his sister, or
mother, or wife.

One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice
recaptured, and suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, had
escaped again , and, in a letter which we heard read, tells his
friends that he is going back a third time, that he may, at last,
bring away his sister. My good sir, is this man a hero, or a
criminal? Would not you do as much for your sister1? And
can you blame him 1

But, to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their
eyes, and recovering themselves from too great and sudden a
joy. They are now seated around the social board, and are
getting decidedly companionable ; only that Cassy, who keeps
little Eliza on her lap, occasionally squeezes the little thing, in
a manner that rather astonishes her, and obstinately refuses to
have her mouth stuffed with cake to the. extent the little one
desires, — alleging, what the child rather wonders at, that she
has got something better than cake, and does n't want it.

And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has passed
over Cassy, that our readers would scarcely know her. The
despairing, haggard expression of her face had given way to one
of gentle trust. She seemed to sink, at once, into the bosom of
the frmily, and take the little ones into her heart, as something

512 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

for which it long had waited. Indeed, her love seemed to flow
more naturally to the little Eliza than to her own daughter ;
for she was the exact image and body of the child whom she
had lost. The little one was a flowery bond between mother
and daughter, through whom grew up acquaintanceship and
affection. Eliza's steady, consistent piety, regulated by the
constant reading of the sacred word, made her a proper guide
for the shattered and wearied mind of her mother. Cassy
yielded at once, and with her whole soul, to every good influ-
ence, and became a devout and tender Christian.

After a day or two, Madame de Thoux told her brother more
particularly of her affairs. The death of her husband had left
her an ample fortune, which she generously offered to share
with the family. When she asked George what way she could
best apply it for him, he answered, " Give me an education,
Emily ; that has always been my heart's desire. Then, I can
do all the rest."

On mature deliberation, it was decided that the whole family
should go, for some years, to France ; whither they sailed, carry-
ing Erameline with them.

The good looks of the latter won the affection of the first
mate of the vessel ; and, shortly after entering the port, she
became his wife.

George remained four years at a French university, and,
applying himself with an unintermitted zeal, obtained a very
thorough education.

Political troubles in France, at last, led the family again to
seek an asylum in this country.

George's feelings and views, as an educated man, may be
best expressed in a letter to one of his friends.

" I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True, as you
have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the whites, in this
country, my shade of color is so slight, and that of my wife and
family' scarce perceptible. Well, perhaps, on sufferance, I might
But, to tell you the truth, I have no wish to.

" My sympathies are not for my father's race, but for my moth
er's. To him I was no more than a fine dog or horse ; to my poor
heart-broken mother I was a child ; and, though I never saw her,
after the cruel sale, that separated us, till she died, yet I know she
always loved me dearly. I know it by my own heart. When I
think of all she suffered, of my own early sufferings, of the dis-
tresses and struggles of my heroic wife, of rny sister, sold in the New
Orleans slave-market, — though I hope to have no unchristian sen-

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 513

timents, yet I may be excused for saying, I have no wish to pass
for an American, or to identify myself with them.

" It is with the oppressed, enslaved African race that I cast in my
lot ; and, if I wished anything, I would wish myself two shade?
darker, rather than one lighter.

" The desire and yearning of my soul is for an African nationality
I want a people that shall have a tangible, separate existence of its
own ; and where am I to look for it ? Not in Hayti ; for in Hayti
they had nothing to start with. A stream cannot rise above its
fountain. The race that formed the character of the Haytiens was
a worn-out, effeminate one ; arid, of course, the subject race will be
centuries in rising to anything.

"Where, then, shall I look \ On the shores of Africa I see a re-
public,— a republic formed of picked men, who, by energy and
self-educating force, have, in many cases, individually, raised them-
selves above a condition of slavery. Having gone through a pre-
paratory stage of feebleness, this republic has, at last, become an
acknowledged nation on the face of the earth, — acknowledged by
both France and England. There it is my wish to go, and find
myself a people.

'• I am aware, now, that I shall have you all against me ; but,
before you strike, hear me. During my stay in France, I have fol-
lowed up, with intense interest, the history of my people in America.
I have noted the struggle between abolitionist and colonizationist,
and have received some impressions, as a distant spectator, which
could never have occurred to me as a participator.

" I grant that this Liberia may have subserved all sorts of purposes,
by being played on", in the hands of our oppressors, against us. Doubt-
less the scheme may have been used, in unjustifiable ways, as a
means of retarding our emancipation. But the question to me is,
Is there not a God above all man's schemes 1 May he not have
overruled their designs, and founded for us a nation by them ?

" In these days, a nation is born in a day. A nation starts, now,
with all the great problems of republican life and civilization
wrought out to its hand ; — it has not to discover, but only to
apply. Let us, then, all take hold together, with all our might,
and see what we can do with this new enterprise, and the whole
splendid continent of Africa opens before us and our children. Our
nation shall roll the tide of civilization and Christianity along its
shores, and plant there mighty republics, that, growing with the
rapidity of tropical vegetation, shall be for all coming ages.

" Do you say that I am deserting my enslaved brethren ? I think
not. If I forget them one hour, one moment of my life, so maj
God forget me ! But, what can I do for them here 1 Can I break
their chains ? No, not as an individual ; but, let me go and form
part of a nation, which shall have a voice in the councils of nations,
and then we can speak. A nation has a right to argue, remonstrate,
implore, and present the cause of its race. — which an individual
jas not.

514 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

" If Europe ever becomes a grand council of free nations, — as I
trust in God it will, — if, there, serfdom, and all unjust and op-
pressive social inequalities, are done away ; and if they, as France
and England have done, acknowledge our position, — then, in the
great congress of nations, we will make our appeal, and present the
cause of our enslaved and suffering race ; and it cannot be that free,
enlightened America will not then desire to wipe from her escutch-
eon that liar sinister which disgraces her among nations, and is as
truly a curse to her as to the enslaved.

" But, you will tell me, our race have equal rights to mingle in
the American republic as the Irishman, the German, and the Swede.
Granted, they have. We ought to be free to meet and mingle, — to
cise by our individual worth, without any consideration of caste or
;olor ; and they who deny us this right are false to their own pro-
fessed principles of human equality. We ought, in particular, to be
allowed here. We have more than the rights of common men ; —
we have the claim of an injured race for reparation. But, then,
1 do not want it; I want a country, a nation, of my own. I think
that the African race has peculiarities, yet to be unfolded in the
light of civilization and Christianity, which, if not the same with
those of the Anglo-Saxon, may prove to be, morally, of even a
higher type.

" To the Anglo-Saxon race has been intrusted the destinies of the
world, during its pioneer period of struggle and conflict, To that
mission its stern, inflexible, energetic elements were well adapted ;
but, as a Christian, I look for another era to arise. On its borders
I trust we stand ; and the throes that now convulse the nations are,
to my hope, but the birth-pangs of an hour of universal peace and
brotherhood.

" I trust that the development of Africa is to be essentially a
Christian one. If not a dominant and commanding race, they are,
at least, an affectionate, magnanimous, and forgiving one. Having
been called in the furnace of injustice and oppression, they have
need to bind closer to their hearts that sublime doctrine of love and
forgiveness, through which alone they are to conquer, which it is to
be their mission to spread over the continent of Africa.

" In myself, I confess, I am feeble for this, — full half the blood
in my veins is the hot and hasty Saxon ; but I have an eloquen'
preacher of the Gospel ever by my side, in the person of my beaut i
ful wife. When I wander, her gentler spirit ever restores me, and
keeps before my eyes the Christian calling and mission of our race
As a Christian patriot, as a teacher of Christianity, I go to m/j
country, — my chosen, my glorious Africa! — and to her, in my
heart, I sometimes apply those splendid words of prophecv :
' Whereas thou hast been forsaken and hated, so that no man went
through thee ; / will make thee an eternal excellence, a joy oi
many generations ! '

" You will call me an enthusiast : you will tell me that I have

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 515

not well considered what I am undertaking. But I have con-
sidered, and counted the cost. I go to Liberia, not as to au Elysium
of romance, but as to a field of work. 1 expect to work with both
hands, — to work hard ; to work against all sorts of difficulties and
discouragements ; and to work till I die. This is what I go for ;
and in this 1 am quite sure I shall not be disappointed.

" Whatever you may think of my determination, do not divorce
me from your confidence ; and think that, in whatever I do, I act
with a heart wholly given to my people. '

" GEORGE HARRIS."

George, with his wife, children, sister, aud mother, embarked'
for Africa, some few weeks after. If we are not mistaken,
the world will yet hear from him there.

Of our other characters we have nothing very particular to
write, except a word relating to Miss Ophelia and Topsy, and
a farewell chapter, which we shall dedicate to George Shelby.

Miss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, much
to the surprise of that grave deliberative body whom a New-
Englander recognizes under the term " Our folks." " Our
folks," at first, thought it an odd and unnecessary addition to
their well-trained domestic establishment ; but, so thoroughly
efficient was Miss Ophelia in her conscientious endeavor to do
her duty by her eleve, that the child rapidly grew in grace and
in favor with the family and neighborhood. At the age of
womanhood, she was, by her own request, baptized, and be-
came a member of the Christian church in the place ; and
showed so much intelligence, activity, and zeal, and desire to
do good in the world, that she was at last recommended, and
approved, as a missionary to one of the stations in Africa ;
and we have heard that the same activity and ingenuity which,
when a child, made her so multiform and restless in her de-
velopments, is now employed, in a safer and wholesomer man-
jier, in teaching the children of her own country.

P. S. -- It will be a satisfaction to some mother, also, to
state, that some inquiries, which were set on foot by Madame
de Thoux, have resulted recently in the discovery of Cassy's
son. Being a young man of energy, he had escaped, some
years before his mother, and been received and educated by
friends of the oppressed in the north. He will soon follow
his family to Africa.

516 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTEE XLIV.

THE LIBEBATOR

jgpEORGE SHELBY had written to his mother merely
a line, stating the day that she might expect him
home. Of the death scene of his old friend he
had not the heart to write. He had tried several
iimes, and only succeeded in half choking himself;
and invariably finished by tearing up the paper, wiping his
eyes, and rushing somewhere to get quiet.

There was a pleased bustle all through the Shelby mansion,
that day, in expectation of the arrival of young Mas'r George.

Mrs. Shelby was seated in her comfortable parlor, where a
cheerful hickory lire was dispelling the chill of the late autumn
evening. A supper-table, glittering with plate and cut glass,
was set out, on whose arrangements our former friend, old
Chloe, was presiding.

Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean, white apron, and
high, well-starched turban, her black polished face glowing with
satisfaction, she lingered, with needless punctiliousness, around
the arrangements of the table, merely as an excuse for talking
a little to her mistress.

"Laws, now! won't it look natural to him?" she said.
" Thar, — I set his plate just whar he likes it, — round by the
fire. Mas'r George allers wants de warm seat. 0, go way ! —
why did n't Sally get out de best teapot, — de little new one,
Mas'r George got for Missis, Christmas ] I '11 have it out !
And Missis has heard from Mas'r George1?" she said, in-
quiringly.

" Yes, Chloe ; but only a line, just to say he would be hom(
to-night, if he could, — that's all."

" Did n't say nothin' 'bout my old man, s'pose1? " said Chloe,
still fidgeting with the teacups.

" NOJ he did n't. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. He
said he would tell all, when he got home."

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 517

"Jes like Mas'r George, — he's allers so ferce for tellin'
everything hisself. I allers minded dat ar in Mas'r George.
Don't see, for my part, how white people gen'lly can bar to hev
bo write things much as they do, writin' 's such slow, oneasy
kind o' work.'1

Mrs. Shelby smiled.

" I 'm a thinkin' my old man won't know de boys and de
baby. Lor' ! she 's de biggest gal, now, — good she is, too, and
.peart, Polly is. She 's out to the house, now, watchin' de hoe-
cake. I 's got jist de very pattern my old man liked so much,
a bakin'. Jist sich as I gin him the mornin' he was took off.
Lord bless us ! how I felt, dat ar morning ! "

Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her heart, at
this allusion. She had felt uneasy, ever since she received her
son's letter, lest something should prove to be hidden behind
the veil of silence which he had drawn.

" Missis has got dem bills ] " said Chloe, anxiously.

" Yes, Chloe."

" 'Cause I wants to show my old man dem very bills de per-
fectioner gave me. ' And," says he, ' Chloe, I wish you 'd stay
longer.' ' Thank you, Mas'r,' says I, ' I would, only my old
man 's coming home, and Missis, — she can't do without me no
longer.' There 's jist what I telled him. Berry nice man, dat
Mas'r Jones was."

Chloe had pertinaciously insisted that the very bills in which
her wages had been paid should be preserved, to show to her
husband, in memorial of her capability. And Mrs. Shelby had
readily consented to humor her in the request.

"He won't know Polly, — my old man won't. Laws, it's
five year since they tuck him ! She was a baby den, — could n't
but jist stand. Remember how tickled he used to be, 'cause
she would keep a fallin' over, when she sot out to walk. Laws
a me!"

The rattling of wheels now was heard.

" Mas'r George ! " said Aunt Chloe, starting to the window.

Mrs. Shelby ran to the entry door, and was folded in tho
[arms of her son. Aunt Chloe stood anxiously straining hei
'eyes out into the darkness.

" 0, poor Aunt Chloe ! " said George, stopping compassion
ately, and taking her hard, black hand between both his ; " I 'd
have given all my fortune to have brought "him with me, but
he 's gone to a better country."

518 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

There was a passionate exclamation from Mrs. Shelby, but
Aunt Chloe said nothing.

The party entered the supper-room. The money, of which
Chloe was so proud, was still lying on the table.

" Thar," said she, gathering it up, and holding it, with a
trembling hand, to her mistress, " don't never want to see nor
hear on 't again. Jist as I knew 't would be, — sold, and mur-
dered on dein ar old plantations ! "

Chloe turned, and was walking proudly out of the room.',
Mrs. Shelby followed her softly, and took one of her hands,
drew her down into a chair, and sat down by her.

" My poor, good Chloe ! " said she.

Chloe leaned her head on her mistress's shoulder, and sobbed
out, " 0, Missis ! 'sense me, my heart 's broke, — dat 's all ! "

" I know it is," said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast ; "and
/ cannot heal it, but Jesus can. He healeth the broken-hearted,
and bindeth up their wounds."

There was a silence for some time, and all wept together. At
last, George, sitting down beside the mourner, took her hand,
and, with simple pathos, repeated the triumphant scene of her
husband's death, and his last messages of love.

About a month after this, one morning, all the servants of
the Shelby estate were convened together in the great hall that
ran through the house, to hear a few words from their young
master.

To the surprise of all, he appeared among them with a bundle
of papers in his hand, containing a certificate of freedom to every
one on the place, which he read successively, and presented,
amid the sobs and tears and shouts of all present.

Many, however, pressed around him, earnestly begging him
not to send them away ; and, with anxious faces, tendering
back their free papers.

" We don't want to be no freer than we are. We 's allers
had all we wanted. We don't want to leave de ole place, and
Mas'r and Missis, and de rest ! "

" My good friends," said George, as soon as he could get a
silence, "there '11 be no need for you to leave me. The place
wants as many hands to work it as it did before. We need the
same about the house that we did before. But. you are now
free men and free women. I shall pay you wages for your
work, such as we shall agree on. The advantage is, that in case
of my getting in debt, or dying, — things that might happen,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 519

— you cannot now be taken up and sold. I expect to carry on
the estate, and to teach you what, perhaps, it will take you
some time to learn, — how to use the rights I give you as free
men and women. I expect you to be good, and willing to
learn ; and I trust in God that I shall be faithful, and willing
to teach. And now, my friends, look up, and thank God for
the blessing of freedom."

An aged, patriarchal negro, who had grown gray and blind
on the estate, now rose, and, lifting his trembling hand, saidr
'; Let us give thanks unto the Lord ! " As all kneeled by one
consent, a more touching and hearty Te Deum never ascended
to heaven, though borne on the peal of organ, bell, and cannon,
than came from that honest old heart.

On rising, another struck up a Methodist hymn, of which
the burden was, —

" The year of Jubilee is come, —
Return, ye ransomed sinners, home."

" One thing more," said George, as he stopped the congratu-
lations of the throng ; " you all remember our good old Uncle
Tom '? "

George here gave a short narration of the scene of his death,
and of his loving farewell to all on the placf-, and added, -

" It was on his grave, my friends, tha'. I resolved, before
God, that I would never own another slave, while it was possi-
ble to free him ; that nobody, through rue, should ever run
the risk of being parted from home and friends, and dying on
a lonely plantation, as he died. So, when you rejoice in your
freedom, think that you owe it to that good old soul, and pay
it back in kindness to his wife and children. Think of your
freedom, every time you see UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; and let it
be a memorial to put you all in mind to fo''low in his steps, and
be as honest and faithful and Christian a-° he was."

520

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTEE XLV.

CONCLUDING REMARKS.

> HE writer has often been inquired of, by correspond-
ents from different parts of the country, whether
this narrative is a true one ; and to these inquiries
she will give one general answer.

The separate incidents that compose the narra-
tive are, to a very great extent, authentic, occurring, many of
them, either under her own observation or that of her personal
friends. She or her friends have observed characters the coun-
terpart of almost all that are here introduced ; and many of the
sayings are word for word as heard herself, or reported to her.

The personal appearance of Eliza, the character ascribed to
her, are sketches drawn from life. The incorruptible fidelity,
piety, and honesty of Uncle Tom had more than one develop-
ment, to her personal knowledge. Some of the most deeply
tragic and romantic, some of the most terrible incidents, have
also their parallel in reality. The incident of the mother's
crossing the Ohio river on the ice is a well-known fact. The
story of " old Prue " (Chapter XIX.) was an incident that
fell under the personal observation of a brother of the writer,
then collecting-clerk to a large mercantile house in New Or-
leans. From the same source was derived the character of the
planter Legree. Of him her brother thus wrote, speaking of
visiting his plantation, on a collecting tonr : He actually made
me feel of his tist, which was like a blacksmith's hammer,
or a nodule of iron, telling me that it was ' calloused with
knocking down niggers.' When I left the plantation. T drove
a long breath, and felt as if I had escaped from an ogre's den.'''
That the tragical fate of Tom, also, has too many times ha<;
its parallel, there are living witnesses, all over our land, to
testify. Let it be remembered that in all southern states it is
a principle of jurisprudence that no person of colored lineage
can testify in a suit against a white, and it will be easy to see

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 521

that such a case may occur, wherever there is a man whose
passions outweigh his interests, and a slave who has manhood
or principle enough to resist his will. There is, actually, noth^
ing to protect the slave's life, but the character of the master.
Facts too shocking to be contemplated occasionally force their
way to the public ear, and the comment that one often hears
made on them is more shocking than the thing itself. It is
said, "Very likely such cases may now and then occur, but
they are no sample of general practice." If the laws of New
England were so arranged that a master could now and then
torture an apprentice to death, without a possibility of being
brought to justice, would it be received with equal composure]
Would it be said, " These cases are rare, and no samples of
general practice"'/ This injustice is an inherent one in the
slave system, --it cannot exist without it.

The public and shameless sale of beautiful mulatto and
quadroon girls has acquired a notoriety, from the incidents
following the capture of the Pearl. We extract the following
from the speech of Hon. Horace Maim, one of the legal counsel
for the defendants in that case. He says : " In that company
of seventy-six persons, who attempted, in 1848, to escape from
the District of Columbia in the schooner Pearl, and whose
officers I assisted in defending, there were several young and
healthy girls, who had those peculiar attractions of form and
feature which connoisseurs prize so highly. Elizabeth Eussel
was one of them. She immediately fell into the slave-trader's
fangs, and was doomed for the New Orleans market. The
hearts of those that saw her were touched with pity for her
fate. They offered eighteen hundred dollars to redeem her ;
and some there were who offered to give, that would not have
much left after the gift ; but the fiend of a slave-trader was
inexorable. She was despatched to New Orleans ; but, when
about half-way there, God had mercy on her, and smote her
with death. There were two girls named Edmundson in the
same company. When about to be sent to the same market,
an older sister went to the shambles, to plead with the wretch
who owned them, for the love of God, to spare his victims.
He bantered her, telling what fine dresses and fine furniture
they would have. ' Yes,' she said, ' that may do very well in
this life, but what will become of them in the next 1 ' They
too were sent to New Orleans ; but were afterwards redeemed,
at an enormous ransom, and brought back." Is it not plain,

522 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OR,

from this, that the histories of Einmeliue and Gassy may have
many counterparts ?

Justice, too, obliges the author to state that the fairness of
mind and generosity attributed to St. Clare are not without i
parallel, as the following anecdote will show. A few year?
since, a young Southern gentleman was in Cincinnati, with a
favorite servant, who h.:d been his personal attendant from a
boy. The young man took advantage of this opportunity to
secure his own freedom, and tied to the protection of a Quaker.
who was quite noted in affairs of this kind. The owner was
exceedingly indignant. He had always treated the slave with
such indulgence, and his confidence in his affection was such,
that he believed he must have been practised upon to induce
him to revolt from him. He visited the Quaker, in high anger ;
but, being possessed of uncommon candor and fairness, was
soon quieted by his arguments and representations. It was a
side of the subject which he never had heard, — never had
thought on ; and he immediately told the Quaker that, if his
slave would, to his own face, say that it was his desire to be
free, he would liberate him. An interview was forthwith pro-
cured, and Nathan was asked by his young master whether he
had ever had any reason to complain of his treatment, in any
respect.

" No, Mas'r," said Nathan ; " you 've always been good
to me."

" Well, then, why do you want to leave me 1 "

" Mas'r may die, and then who get me 1 — I 'd rather be a

free man."

After some deliberation, the young master replied, " Nathan,
in your place, I think I should feel very much so, myself.
You are free."

He immediately made him out free papers ; deposited a sum
of money in the hands of the Quaker, to be judiciously used
in assisting him to start in life, and left a very sensible and
kind letter of advice to the young man. That letter was for
some time in the writer's hands.

The author hopes she has done justice to that nobility, gen-
erosity, and humanity, which in many cases characterize indi-
viduals at the South. Such instances save us from utter despair
of our kind. But, she asks any person, who knows the world,
are such characters common, anywhere 1

For many years of her life, the author avoided all reading

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 523

upon or allusion to the subject of slavery, considering it as too
painful to be inquired into, and one which advancing light and
civilization would certainly live down. But, since the legisla
tive act of 1850, when she heard> with perfect surprise am
consternation, Christian and humane people actually recom-
mending the remanding escaped fugitives into slavery, as a
duty binding on good citizens, — when she heard, on all hands,
from kind, compassionate, and estimable people, in the free
states of the North, deliberations and discussions as to what
Christian duty could be on this head, — she could only think,
These men and Christians cannot know what slavery is ; if
they did, such a question could never be open for discussion.
And from this arose a desire to exhibit it in a living dramatic
reality. Slie has endeavored to show it fairly, in its best and
its worst phases. In its best aspect, she has, perhaps, been suc-
cessful ; but, oh ! who shall say what yet remains untold in that
valley and shadow of death, that lies the other side 1

To you, generous, noble-minded men and women, of the
South, — you, whose virtue, and magnanimity, and purity of
character, are the greater for the severer trial it has encoun-
tered, — to you is her appeal. Have you not, in your own
secret souls, in your own private conversings, felt that there are
woes and evils, in this accursed system, far beyond what are
here shadowed, or can be shadowed] Can it be otherwise?
Is man ever a creature to be trusted with wholly irresponsible
power 1 And does not the slave system, by denying the slave
all legal right of testimony, make every individual owner an
irresponsible despot 1 Can anybody fail to make the inference
what the practical result will be 1 If there is, as we admit, a
public sentiment among you, men of honor, justice, and human-
ity, is there not also another kind of public sentiment among
the ruffian, the brutal, and debased 1 And cannot the ruffian,
the brutal, the debased, by slave law, own just as many slaves
as the best and purest 1 Are the honorable, the just, the high-
minded and compassionate, the majority anywhere in this
world 1

The slave-trade is now, by American law, considered a?
piracy. But a slave-trade, as systematic as ever was carried on
on the coast of Africa, is an inevitable attendant and result of
American slavery. And its heart-break and its horrors, can
they be told 1

The writer has given only a faint shadow, a dim picture, of

524 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN ; OH,

the anguish and despair that are, at this very moment, riving
thousands of hearts, shattering thousands of families, and driv-
ing a helpless and sensitive race to frenzy and despair. There are
those living who know the mothers whom this accursed traffic
has driven to the murder of their children ; and themselves
seeking in death a shelter from woes more dreaded than death.
Nothing of tragedy can be written, can be spoken, can be con-
ceived, that equals the frightful reality of scenes daily and
hourly acting on our shores, beneath the shadow of American
law, and the shadow of the cross of Christ.

And now, men and women of America, is this a thing to be
trifled with, apologized for, and passed over in silence 1 Farm-
ers of Massachusetts, of New Hampshire, of Vermont, of
Connecticut, who read this book by the blaze of your winter-
evening lire, — strong-hearted, generous sailors and ship-owners
of Maine, -- is this a thing for you to countenance and en-
courage ] Brave and generous men of New York, farmers of
rich and joyous Ohio, and ye of the wide prairie states, — an-
swer, is this a thing for you to protect and countenance1? And
you, mothers of America, -- you, who have learned, by the
cradles of your own children, to love and feel for all mankind,
— by the sacred love you bear your child ; by your joy in his
beautiful, spotless infancy ; by the motherly pity and tender-
ness with which you guide his growing years ; by the anxie-
ties of his education ; by the prayers you breathe for his soul's
eternal good ; — I beseech you, pity the mother who has all
your affections, and not one legal right to protect, guide, or
educate the child of her bosom ! By the sick hour of your
child ; by those dying eyes, which you can never forget ; by
those last cries, that wrung your heart when you could neither
help nor save ; by the desolation of that empty cradle, that
silent nursery,--! beseech you, pity those mothers that are
constantly made childless by the American slave-trade ! And
say, mothers of America, is this a thing to be defended, sym-
pathized with, passed over in silence ]

Do you say that the people of the free states have nothing
to do with it, and can do nothing 1 Would to God this were
true ! But it is not true. The people of the free states have
defended, encouraged, and participated ; and are more guilty
for it, before God, than the South, in that they have not the
apology of education or custom.

If the mothers of the free states had all felt as they should,

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY, 525

in times past, the sons of the free states would not have been
the holders, and, proverbially, the hardest masters of slaves ;
the sons of the free states would not have connived at the ex-
tension of slavery, in our national body ; the sons of the free
states would not, as they do, trade the souls and bodies of men
as an equivalent to money, in their mercantile dealings. There
are multitudes of slaves temporarily owned, and sold again, by
merchants in Northern cities ; and shall the whole guilt or
obloquy of slavery fall only on the South ?

Northern men, Northern mothers, Northern Christians, have
something more to do than denounce their brethren at the
South ; they have to look to the evil among themselves.

But, what can any individual do 1 Of that, every individual
can judge. There is one thing that every individual can do, —
they can see to it that they feel right. An atmosphere of sym-
pathetic influence encircles every human being ; and the man
or woman who feels strongly, healthily, and justly on the great
interests of humanity, is a constant benefactor to the human
race. See, then, to your sympathies in this matter ! Are they
in harmony with the sympathies of Christ 1 or are they swayed
and perverted by the sophistries of worldly policy 1

Christian men and women of the North ! still further, —
you have another power ; you can pray ! Do you believe in
prayer ] or has it become an indistinct apostolic tradition 1 You
pray for the heathen abroad ; pray also for the heathen at home.
And pray for those distressed Christians whose whole chance
of religious improvement is an accident of trade and sale ; from
whom any adherence to the morals of Christianity is, in many
cases, an impossibility, unless they have given them, from above,
the courage and .grace of martyrdom.

But, still more. On the shores of our free states are emerg-
ing the poor, shattered, broken remnants of families, — men
and women, escaped, by miraculous providences, from the surges
of slavery, — feeble in knowledge, and, in many cases, infirm in
moral constitution, from a system which confounds and con-
fuses every principle of Christianity and morality. They come
to seek a refuge among you ; they c»me to seek education,
knowledge, Christianity.

What do you owe to these poor unfortunates, 0 Christians ?
Does not every American Christian owe to the African race
some effort at reparation for the wrongs that the American na-
tion has brought upon them 1 Shall the doors of churches and

526 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

*chool-houses be shut upon them ? Shall states arise and shake
them out 1 Shall the Church of Christ hear in silence the
taunt that is thrown at them, and shrink away from the help-
less hand that they stretch out ; and, by her silence, encourage
the cruelty that would chase them from our borders? If it
must be so, it will be a mournful spectacle. If it must be so,
the country will have reason to tremble, when it remembers
that the fate of nations is in the hands of One who is very
pitiful, and of tender compassion.

Do you say, " We don't want them here ; let them go to
Africa " ?

That the providence of God has provided a refuge in Africa,
is, indeed, a great and noticeable fact ; but that is no reason
why the Church of Christ should throw off that responsibility to
this outcast race which her profession demands of her.

To fill up Liberia with an ignorant, inexperienced, half-bar-
barized race, just escaped from the chains of slavery, would be
only to prolong, for ages, the period of struggle and conflict
which attends the inception of new enterprises. Let the Church
of the North receive these poor sufferers in the spirit of Christ ;
receive them to the educating advantages of Christian republi-
can society and schools, until they have attained to somewhat
of a moral and intellectual maturity, and then assist them in
their passage to those shores, where they may put in practice
the lessons they have learned in America.

There is a body of men at the North, comparatively small, who
have been doing this ; and, as the result, this country has
already seen examples of men, formerly slaves, who have rapidly
acquired property, reputation, and education. Talent has been
developed, which, considering the circumstances, is certainly
remarkable ; and, for moral traits of honesty, kindness, tender-
ness of feeling, — for heroic efforts and self-denials, endured for
the ransom of brethren and friends yet in slavery, — they have
been remarkable to a degree that, considering the influence under,
which they were born, is surprising.

The writer has lived, for many years, on the frontier-line of
slave states, and has had great opportunities of observation
among those who formerly were slaves. They have been in
her family as servants ; and, in default of any other school to
receive them, she has, in many cases, had them instructed in
a family school, with her own children. She has also the testi-
mony of missionaries, among the fugitives in Canada, in coi&>

LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 527

cidence with her own experience ; and her deductions, with
regard to the capabilities of the race, are encouraging in the
highest degree.

The first desire of the emancipated slave, generally, is for
education. There is nothing that they are not willing to give
or do to have their children instructed ; and, so far as the
writer has observed herself, or taken the testimony of teachers
among them, they are remarkably intelligent and quick to
learn. The results of schools, founded for them by benevolent
individuals in Cincinnati, fully establish this.

The author gives the following statement of facts, on the
authority of Professor C. E. Stowe, then of Lane Seminary,
Ohio, with regard to emancipated slaves, now resident in Cin-
cinnati ; given to show the capability of the race, even without
any very particular assistance or encouragement.

The initial letters alone are given. They are all residents of
Cincinnati.

" B . Furniture-maker ; twenty years in the city ; worth

ten thousand dollars, all his own earnings ; a Baptist.

" C . Full black ; stolen from Africa ; sold in New

Orleans ; been free fifteen years ; paid for himself six hundred
dollars ; a farmer ; owns several farms in Indiana ; Presby-
terian ; probably worth fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, all
earned by himself.

" K— — . Full black ; dealer in real estate ; worth thirty
thousand dollars ; about forty years old ; free six years ; paid
eighteen hundred dollars for his family ; member of the Baptist
church ; received a legacy from his master, which he lias taken
good care of, and increased.

" G . Full black ; coal-dealer ; about thirty years old ;

worth eighteen thousand dollars ; paid for himself twice, being
once defrauded to the amount of sixteen hundred dollars ; made
all his money by his own efforts, — much of it while a slave,
hiring his time of his master, and doing business for himself;
a fine, gentlemanly fellow.

" W- — . Three fourths black; barber and waiter; from
Kentucky ; nineteen years free ; paid for self and family ovei
three thousand dollars ; worth twenty thousand dollars, all
his own earnings ; deacon in the Baptist church.

" G. D . Three fourths black ; whitewasher ; from

Kentucky ; nine years free ; paid fifteen hundred dollars for
self and family ; recently died, aged sixty ; worth six thousand
dollars."

528 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; OR,

Professor Stowe says, " With all these, except G , 1

have been, for some years, personally acquainted, and make
my statements from my own knowledge."

The writer well remembers an aged colored woman, who
was employed as a washerwoman in her father's family. The
daughter of this woman married a slave. She was a remark
ably active and capable young woman, and, by her industry
and thrift, and the most persevering self-denial, raised nine
hundred dollars for her husband's freedom, which she paid, as
she raised it, into the hands of his master. She yet wanted a
hundred dollars of the price, when he died. She never recov-
ered any of the money.

These are but few facts, among multitudes which might be
adduced, to show the self-denial, energy, patience, and honesty,
which the slave has exhibited in a state of freedom.

And let it be remembered that these individuals have thus
bravely succeeded in conquering for themselves comparative
wealth and social position, in the face of every disadvantage
and discouragement. The colored man, by the law of Ohio,
cannot be a voter, and, till within a few years, was even denied
the right of testimony in legal suits with the white. Nor are
these instances confined to the State of Ohio. In all states of
the Union we see men, but yesterday burst from the shackles
of slavery, who, by a self-educating force, which cannot be too
much admired, have risen to highly respectable stations in
society. Pennington, among clergymen, Douglas and Ward,
among editors, are well-known instances.

If this persecuted race, with every discouragement and dis^
advantage, have done thus much, how much more they might
do, if the Christian Church would act towards them in the spirit
of her Lord !

This is an age of the world when nations are trembling and
convulsed. A mighty influence is abroad, surging and heaving
the world, as with an earthquake. And is America safe f\
Every nation that carries in its bosom great and unredressed
injustice has in it the elements of this last convulsion.

For what is this mighty influence thus rousing in all nations
and languages those groanings that cannot be uttered, for
man's freedom and equality 1

0, Church of Christ, read the signs of the times ! Is not this
power the spirit of HIM whose kingdom is yet to come, and
whose will to be done on earth as it is in heaven 1

LIFE AMONG THK LOWLY. 529

But who may abide the day of his appearing ? " For that day
shall burn as an oven : and he shall appear as a swift witness
against those that oppress the hireling in his wages, the widow
and the fatherless, and that turn aside the stranger in his right .
and he shall break in pieces the oppressor."

Are not these dread Avords for a nation bearing in her bosom
so mighty an injustice 1 Christians ! every time that you pray
that the kingdom of Christ may come, can you forget that
prophecy associates, in dread fellowship, the day of vengeance
with the year of his redeemed 1

A day of grace is yet held out to us. Both North and South
have been guilty before God ; and the Christian Church has
a heavy account to answer. Not by combining together, to
protect injustice and cruelty, and making a common capital of
sin, is this Union to be saved, — but by repentance, justice,
and mercy ; for, not surer is the eternal law by which the mill-
stone sinks in the ocean, than that stronger law, by which in-
justice and cruelty shall bring on nations the wrath of Almighty
God!

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CHILDREN'S ROOM

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